Succession
by eruthiel
Summary: Some years in the future... Vetinari is dead, but he's not letting it stop him. OC Ignita's father is Patrician, people keep dying, and a spirit wants to make her ruler. Oh, and her fiance is an assassin, too. On hiatus! Oh no!
1. Crunchtime

**This is by first bash at Discworld, and my first really long fic. I do hope you like it. I DO NOT claim to be a patch on the genius of Terry Pratchett, but I've tried to take **_**a few**_** elements of his writing style. The story's going to be rather long, but so far no other chapters have so many unnecessary mentions of stamps (I went a bit OTT). ;) THE DEEPEST CIRCLE OF HELL IS RESERVED FOR BETRAYERS AND THOSE WHO DO NOT REVIEW. SAVE YOUR SOUL WHILE YOU STILL CAN. Thankyou.**

**Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. I am not worthy to wipe Pratchett's shoes, etc. etc.**

**Chapter One: Crunchtime**

_**In which nobody escapes Death – What Lies Beyond – Gregory Trim makes arrangements – Ignita's opinion – Mr Trim is late – Chaos ruling – A single vote – Worries of the Beggar**_

You can't get the better of Death in the long run. Oh, you can borrow time, and you can steal it or trick someone out of it, but if the aim of your game is to escape the Ultimate Reality, you've lost before you've begun. And even the cleverest of clever men, with scores of clever people working for them night and day at being clever, can't keep on living. Even tyrants have to die, in the end, no matter how good at his job he is. Or she is.

The man's thoughts, as he lay on his deathbed, were impossible to guess. However, it was obvious to the few who thought about these things that he was very proud of himself. To die of _real _natural causes in Ankh-Morpork is quite an achievement. There were niggling worries in his mind, though, such as the matter of who was to succeed him. Only monarchs and other eccentrics handed such titles down through the family – here, the post would go to the first man to tread on the others' fingers and plant himself in the chair. He didn't want all his work to be spoiled by an idiot and, no matter how many plans he made, nothing could guarantee the new Patrician.

In his time, Lord Vetinari had seen some pretty amazing things. He had briefly been replaced by a dragon. Someone had put rocks into music. Giant women with screaming apes had climbed tall buildings (alright, so that only happened once, but that's more than most cities can boast). He'd been shot. Ghastly Things from the Dungeon Dimensions had run riot on more than one occasion.

And of course, stamps had been invented.

But now it was someone else's turn to have their face on a stamp, or vice versa, ha ha ha. (Vetinari never had acquired a normal sense of humour.) And for once, it didn't really matter what he thought. For once, it wasn't his problem.

**H**O HUM. **H**ERE WE GO AGAIN.

Binky cantered silently across the sky towards Ankh-Morpork. Like the late ruler of the city, it was hard to say what the horse thought about, but Death had always assumed it was something similar to what other horses thought about. Only faster, and with longer words.

Slowing to a trot and then a walk, Binky carried his rider to the roof of the palace. Death strode off to where the client was waiting.

"Hmm . . ." Vetinari looked up at the approaching figure. "You must be Death?"

**W**ELL DONE.

"And . . ." He glanced at the empty body on the bed. "That's my body. How . . . curious."

**I **MUST SAY, YOU'RE TAKING THIS VERY WELL. **M**OST PEOPLE FIND IT VERY DIFFICULT TO ADJUST TO BEING DEAD.

"Yes. Well, I knew it was coming, I suppose."

**Y**ES. **I**F YOU WOULD FOLLOW ME.

"Oh, yes, of course," the spirit said, waving a hand. Then he hesitated. "I don't suppose I could . . ?"

**N**O. **G**HOSTS ONLY, **I**'M AFRAID.

"Right." Vetinari sighed. "And you don't know who it's going to be?"

**I**F **I** DID **I** WOULDN'T TELL YOU. Death's voice was like the cracking of tombstones. **C**OME WITH ME.

Vetinari followed Death out of the room, through the study and towards What Lay Beyond. But he never made things that simple, of course.

It was three weeks before the news reached Ignita Trim, by which time it hardly qualified as news anyway. Well, in reality, she'd known since the night after the man died, because of her fortunate habit of being in earshot at the right moments, but _officially_ she was only informed when her father arranged her and her four brothers in the dining room for a serious talk. Yes, you did see 'arrange'. Ignita often felt like she was being arranged, like a bunch of flowers, or ghastly little souvenirs that accumulate on mantelpieces. It was very degrading.

Gregory Gunter Gleevenharger Trim was currently Head of the Merchant's Guild, but rumour had it that if it came to a vote, he'd make it as next ruler. People liked Trim. He seemed sort of friendly and trustworthy; the sort of person you'd jump a mile from if you met him down a dark alley with a knife. (There's something predictable about being mugged by a criminal. Being mugged by an honest man would be positively terrifying.)

It is ironic that the people who sustained this rumour were the least likely to believe it – even the easily over-excited citizens had not yet hit upon the fact that the Patrician was actually dead, and had been for weeks. They had come to think of Vetinari as something as constant and unchanging as, well, a rock, only smarter. Or bodies on the Ankh every morning, only not as, well, dead. He was just, well, _there. _You didn't have to do anything. He'd just be there in his palace, clicking away, making things work, and not dying.

"Hem-hem," began Trim, once his children were organised correctly. "Now, boys, and girl, I know this, um, will be very difficult for you, hem-hem. Our Patrician, who is, um, hem-hem, was, as you are aware . . . well . . ."

Trim did not have a way with words when it came to communicating with his children. If a sentence didn't have a special offer or a guarantee in it, the man could hardly cope. Ignita, who, at eighteen, was older than all her brothers, often knew what he was about to say anyway. "Oh dear, Father," she cried, "He's not dead, is he?"

"Well, hem-hem, actually, um, that is to say, um, yes." The man was in danger of creating a health hazard with his sweat. Well, at least now the city had a river that _flowed._

"Oh, how dreadful," muttered Ignita, before stomping off to her room. Actually, she was genuinely upset. Of course, she'd known Vetinari was dead for weeks, but this made it all more real and official. She'd really admired that man. Somehow, when something went wrong for herself or her father, it was never actually his fault, although with a little digging one would often discover that the event was, in some subtle and complicated way, because of the Patrician. But it never felt that way. Someone who could make people think like that deserved a medal.

And it wasn't just that. Somehow, it had been kept from the general unwashed public for this long, but the Guild Heads and the really important people knew that in Ankh-Morpork it's hard to hide this sort of thing. As soon as everybody found out Vetinari was, frankly, to be precise, not to beat about the bush, to put it bluntly, dead, there'd be panic the likes of which hadn't been seen in the city since the last lot of Ghastly Things From the Dungeon Dimentions, and then some horrid business man (or worse, Ignita's own father) would be put in charge. It was unfair. At least Vetinari had had a little sense, a little . . . _style_; he could make the city work, or at least look like it worked.

"Argh!" the girl cried for no real reason other than she didn't know what else to say; and it was either say something or thump something. It is curious that this is how Wizards sometimes tend to operate, but in a different way of course.

Cowardice was the key to all this, she thought. Cowardice, and selfishness, and the belief that if you closed your eyes tight enough, it would all be gone when you opened them. And when that sort of nonsense got around, clever people could change things quickly while you weren't looking and make you trust them . . .

Ignita had a lot of views and she was determined to make them heard. Perhaps, if her father made it as Patrician (she could always pray; her family were devout followers of Anoia, goddess of Things That Jammed in Drawers) that would become easier. Perhaps. Sitting down at her tiny, cluttered desk, the girl got down to some serious thinking.

Mr Gregory Gunter Gleevenharger Trim knew from experience that his children were somewhat alarming. Sometimes he'd put the younger ones to bed and they'd start to cry that there was something under the bed going to throw them in the dungeons. All with vivid green eyes and black hair, they walked like they owned the world and spoke as if they couldn't care less if you were to wake up on the Ankh – even though three of them were under the age of ten. It didn't pay to upset the Trim children.

However, the merchant took this to be a good sign. Surely anyone who could steeple his little fingers like that at the age of seven was destined for great things? If only they'd stop smiling in that frightening way. It was enough to make a grown man weep, and they often did after being crushed by the pre-adolescent version of a bolt of lightning. Ignita was the worst, but, well, she was only a _girl,_ after all.

Trim arrived at the meeting exactly five minutes and two seconds late, as the Chairman of the Thieves' Guild informed him. That was precisely two minutes and thirty-seven seconds after the assassin, meaning he was too late to be fashionable; just irritating.

All the heads of the major Guilds, as well as other influential citizens plus lawyers (but minus the Wizards, who had refused to be involved, and the Seamstresses, for reasons the males thought were self-evident), had gathered to discuss recent and, more pressingly, future events. They were all pretending to be sad, and all of them knew this, and they all knew that they all did know this, and they knew it. Yet they did it anyway. Who can fathom the depths of the business mind?

"Well," sighed the young head of the Assassins' Guild, "now that we are all here" – the thief glared at Trim – "we can begin. Firstly . . ."

"Hey," cut in the alchemist, "who put you in charge, mister?"

The assassin blinked. "Well, I assumed . . ." He was G Deral. Enough said. _Everyone _listened to G Deral. _Nature _had put him in charge.

"Oh, you just assumed you'd start bossing us around, did you?" demanded the alchemist. "Well, I'm not going to stand for it! I'm sick of being told what to do! I'm Chairman of the damn Alchemists' Guild, godsdammit!"

"But _I'm . . ._"

"Shut up, you! I'm always being pushed about! Shut up, shut up, and let someone else speak for a change!"

Everyone stared. The alchemist was usually . . . quiet, and sort of dreamy, and a bit . . . strange. Two-stamps-short-of-a-collection, if you know what I mean, etc, etc. Nobody really noticed that this was not his natural state of being. He was just a coward, and the things that had scared him most had died along with Vetinari; the fingers, the smile, the voice, and the endless, unbearable feeling that you didn't know the half of it. Now all that had gone, the alchemist found that he could start to speak up for himself – start, but unfortunately, not finish. It was a shame, really. If he had completed that speech, he could have been a great revolutionary leader. It may have been just as well that he didn't finish.

"Um, I mean, well . . ." mumbled the alchemist, suddenly aware that there were very unfriendly eyes on him. "I mean, you . . . we . . . er . . ." There was a small 'thunk' as he hit the floor.

"Thank gods for that," said G. "Well, Like I say, let us begin. As you are all aware, the task of choosing the new ruler of the city now falls to us. Ordinarily, the position would go to whoever killed the last one, but as this, remarkably, is not relevant, it seems that we must decide with a vote."

They stared.

"Among us, naturally," the assassin added hastily, and the group relaxed. "We have delayed this meeting too long . . ."

"Three weeks, fourteen hours and fifty-eight minutes," said the thief, helpfully. The beggar and a businessman, who were sitting on either side of him, shuffled away nervously.

"Quite," continued G, smoothly. "We all knew that there would be difficulties when we accepted a dictatorship . . ." he went on, but was interrupted by Trim whispering, "I don't think _I _accepted it."

"All right, all right, none of us actually agreed to it," snapped the assassin, "but now things are different. Now we choose our Patrician. This is it, gentlemen."

_This is it. _As this thought crossed the merchant's mind, his eyes slid towards a certain man seated across the table from him. Well, that was only to be expected. This person drew the attention of blind cave fish simply be being there.

Laetissimus 'Chaos' Greenferry was a great supporter of individuality, but only in so far as the individual in question was himself. His parties were famous, if only because nobody could ever remember what had actually happened at them, as were his Igors. Even other Igors left them alone. What it was _exactly_ that Greenferry did, nobody knew, but everyone knew him and he was always followed around by a large man with no visible body parts, so it must have been important.

While the others talked, Trim's eyes kept going back to the face of the man opposite, who had remained completely silent throughout the meeting. Everything about Greenferry screamed, 'I have a very tall man behind me and I'm not afraid to use him.' It was unsettling.

Trim very gradually realised that there were people watching him expectantly. "Um?"

"Well?" sighed G.

"Um, could you please repeat the question, er?" asked the merchant.

"Do you agree that a vote should be held to select the new Patrician?" the assassin replied impatiently.

"But isn't that what you said just a few minutes ago?" enquired Trim nervously.

"Actually," the thief corrected him, "it was four minutes and forty-nine . . . fifty . . . fifty-one . . ."

"Yes, yes, thank you," the assassin snapped. "But do you agree, Mr Trim?"

"Oh, right, yes, of course." The merchant nodded manically.

"Good." G rolled his eyes. "Let's get this over with."

The voting was quickly over. Only Greenferry and, to general surprise, a rather alarmed Trim actually received any votes. The merchant was nominated by G, who, obviously, had half the assassins in the city after him already and didn't really want to see Greenfery in charge. Well, none of them did, but they were all scared. Cowardice and selfishness, as Ignita said later. But the assassin's vote spread like the Candle Flame of Hope over the Lump of Butter of Terror. Anoia must have been in a good mood, too, because Trim won. By a single vote.

Walking out, G found himself walking with the Chairman of the Guild of Beggars. "There's a turn up for the books, hm?" said the assassin cheerfully.

"I don't know what you're so happy about," the beggar replied, miserably. "I voted for Trim! I voted against Greenferry! Argh, we're all doomed!"

"There, there," said G comfortingly. "At least you probably won't live long enough to regret this."

It wasn't the most cheering of observations.


	2. Empowered

**Chapter two, and my apologies for the delay – been enjoying the mid-winter Dublin sun! XD Happy reading! It's a crappy title, yeah, but no worries, eh?**

**Disclaimer: sings they call them the Diamond Dogs . . . what?! Oh, right - disclaimer. Blah, not mine, etc. Mister P. all, including your soul. No, scratch that last one . . .**

**Chapter Two: Empowered**

_**An army of Igors – Awkward questions – The Trims talk politics – Disembodied personality – An influential face – Lying with your body – A really, really big stamp**_

"Good evening, thur," lisped half a dozen voices.

As far as anybody knew, this house contained the highest concentration of Igors anywhere in the city. Greenferry liked them. They didn't ask questions, they always knew what he wanted, and they were very handy with a cutlery set in sticky, or even slimy, situations. There was a saying: if you employ an Igor, you're eccentric. If you employ an army of them, you're Laetissimus Greenferry.

"Is it, Igor?" he sighed, as three took his coat. "I hadn't noticed."

"Very good, thur. Would you care for a cup of coffee, thur?"

"Yeth - er, yes, Igor. Have it brought to my room."

He dragged his feet for the last steps to his bedroom, which was littered with maps and random half-memos, and then flung his slim frame into a huge leather armchair that tried, without success, to eat him. He was quietly angry, and tired, and very, very stressed out. But that was the important thing: at least he wasn't stressed _in._ That was when things got nasty.

Greenferry would make a bad Patrician, as anyone who watched him closely could tell you. He was an excellent leader; authoritative, intelligent, decisive and above all carrying the air of superiority designed to annoy absolutely everybody. But he was made to lead people, not whole cities. A city has to be looked at as a collection of individuals _and_ as a single, living, stinking being, both at the same time. Minds moving together start think alike, and enough like minds make an extremely big one. Greenferry couldn't really get that. He didn't see himself as part of a machine. Refusing to accept this insignificance progresses along a short, straight path, and it isn't until you reach the end that you realise it was a line of fizzling gunpowder, leading directly to the leaky barrel.

Greenferry hadn't been chipping away at the day's events with the pickaxe of thought for more than ten seconds before an Igor came in, carrying much-needed coffee. The ginger biscuit had only been added as an afterthought. It was ignored, to Igor's great disappointment.

"You know, Igor," said Greenferry, staring into the murky depths of his drink, "people, are stupid. But they're not just stupid. They're . . . complicated, in an idiotic kind of way, right?"

"I couldn't thay, thur."

"And, they think, that the world is as complicated as, their own … mind. … Idiots." When Greenferry thought aloud, he didn't just say what was on his mind. He said it as he thought it, without stopping to properly convert it to speech. It got very irritating after a while.

"But the assassin . . ."

"I'll call for one at onthe, shall I, thur?"

"No, no, I meant . . . never mind," the man said, waving a hand. Then he realised something. "Hey . . . your lisp just slipped! You said 'shall'!"

"What?" Igor looked alarmed. "Oh, never, thur! I'm thure I definitely lithped, thur!" 1

The room filled up with nervousness. Greenferry didn't seem to notice. "Yes, well, speaking of assassins, I'd like one here at nine thirty tomorrow morning, alright?"

"Ye**th**, **th**ur," she replied, emphasising the lisp, just in case. "Would you like the catalogue, **th**ur?"

"No, just pick one at random. An experienced one, too. I don't want any of these useless new recruits they're taking in these days, OK?"

"Ye**th,** **th**ur, ab**th**olutely, **th**ur!"

With that she **th**curried away, leaving Greenferry to his thoughts.

No-one ever got the chance to ask about his nickname, because the man didn't let them. But even if they had found out, they would forget by morning anyway, because of the weird nature of his parties. (The _Times _had a weekly letters column about it.) In fact, if you want to know about his behaviour at these gatherings, it is generally agreed that he spoke a lot of the time, giving the impression to those who didn't know him that he was either stupid or slightly insane. This was totally wrong. Greenferry was an absolute genius, and very insane. He spoke so much to avoid awkward questions.

* * *

"But _why_ didn't you think it right to inform the citizens at once?" 

Making a mental note to introduce more severe punishments for journalists, Trim glanced at his notes. "Er, '_we deemed that to publicise the information without further planning and discussion would be inappropriate._'" That one was copied from a handy little book called Fallingstone's Replies for All Interviews.

The woman was getting exasperated. "Yes, I know that! But why? And what do you have to say about the riots that have -"

"I'm sorry, but his lordship has no time for further questions. If you would be so kind as to move aside." It was not a request.

That voice could have frozen the woman's blood, if she didn't have twenty years' experience as a journalist. She turned around, saw Ignita – and kept right on turning. When she faced Trim again, there was a plastic grin on her face which screamed, 'Get me the hell out of here'.

"I'm sooo sorry," was what her mouth said. "I'll just be off now." (She was later sacked, but only because nobody else believed what she had seen in the girl's face. She wasn't even sure she believed it herself.)

As Trim came forward to meet his eldest child, he sighed. "Thank you. But there are different ways of dealing with things, you know."

That eyebrow-raise was classic. It was a wonder nobody spotted what Fate had designed her for. "Such as?"

"You'll know when you're older."

Ignita started to burn inside. She hadn't thought any self-respecting person ever really said that in response to any question but the _babies_ one. Father and daughter walked side by side for a while, closely followed by a clerk-cum-bodyguard. Eventually Ignita spoke.

"Father, aren't you worried about Greenferry? Do you think it's safe to be out like this?"

Trim tried to disguise his surprise. Unfortunately, he did this with metaphorical glasses and a figurative beard, with hooks on. "Frightened of Greenferry?" he chuckled, nervously. Then he quickly added, in a very different tone of voice, "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," the girl replied innocently, taking his arm. "I just thought, maybe, perhaps, because he's a power-hungry megalomaniac, completely obsessed with becoming Patrician and eradicating all those who stand in the way of his insane lust for dominance over the rest of the world, and, obviously, being off the Register doesn't come with the title . . . yeah . . . that's why, I think."

Trim came to an abrupt halt. Ignita turned round to stare at him, knowing she might have gone too far this time. Her voice had been so sharp she could now taste peppermint. The two were now locked in a miniature, silent battle, so intense you could almost see the thoughts flying between them.

It is bad enough to see your children become taller than you and use words like 'megalomaniac.' When they start spouting politics, it's almost impossible to cope. Trim was speechless.

The clerk stepped forward, shattering the tight silence with the words, "Is everything alright, sir?"

Without taking his eyes off Ignita, the man replied, "Um, yes, yes, hem-hem, quite alright, thank you."

They walked on in silence, neither daring to speak. Eventually they reached the Palace, where men in trousers that were invariably three sizes too large were unloading the Trims' things from a carriage. The trousers had no belts. The girl winced.

As father and daughter walked across the grounds, they picked up followers like a small planet gathering moons. It seemed there was no end of things to sort out – what did they want to do with this and that? Should so-so be called to discuss blah blah blah? And so on. Trim just kept nodding.

Ignita had picked up a lot about politics over the years. Of course, she was no expert, but it looked to her that the new Patrician was being just a tiny bit silly in agreeing to everything. If the gods did that, where would we be then? Taking the easy way out, avoiding the thought processes and the paperwork – cowardliness was lurking everywhere. She didn't mind people who weren't _brave, _as such, but she didn't like it when they were just plain _foolish_.

Still without saying a word, the two walked to the famed Oblong Office. Not famed because anything gory had ever happened there in particular; it was just well-known, probably for its oblongitude. People never say 'and there's an office in the Palace'. It just sounds silly.

The room felt strangely pointless and small with its chair empty and its desk totally devoid of paperwork. There was, however, the secretary standing by the door, apparently waiting for them. Ignita smiled at him, having held many conversations with Drumknott during various boring meetings her father attended. It was a wonder the man was still around; having been here as long as anyone remembered, he should be about . . . well, let's just say it wasn't really possible, and therefore wasn't true.

"Will you be working for my father?" the girl asked absently, gazing out of the window.

"I believe I come with the room."

"Oh." And how I want this room for mine, Ignita added silently, how I want it! With something approaching reverence, she circled the desk and very slowly lowered herself into the chair –

The change was like a punch in the face, or a knife in the ribs, whichever you prefer. Mr Trim found himself quite unable to move or speak, but he did have the overwhelming urge to turn and run. Even Ignita seemed to grow, or subtract power from the rest of the world and add it to herself. The girl's eyes narrowed as a smile crept onto her features. It almost looked as though she was glowing from inside. Ignita felt something stirring – maybe far off in the universe, maybe deep inside her – and before she knew what was happening, a voice that was not her own started to speak. It didn't get very far, as Trim then ran out of the room, trailing sweat.

The girl sighed. Drumknott stuck his head out of the door, then pulled it back in and remarked: "He's gone, si- miss."

"Yes, very good, Drumknott. Well done." Then, suddenly, a voice whispered inside Ignita's own head.

"_So . . . a girl. This is fascinating. Well . . . girl . . . you can do this. Good luck."_

Puzzled, but determined not to miss a beat, Ignita stared around. She could _feel _another person in here – the shadow of a person, the very essence of a person, but with the body simply taken away. Drumknott hadn't heard a thing. Good old unimaginative Drumknott! And now, suddenly, this room – this plain room, so recently just another empty study in the Palace – this room was now home. The girl smiled darkly to herself. How had she ever lived anywhere else?

* * *

The Chairman of the Assassin's Guild, in his own study, was pacing. This one wasn't really much of a study, but it was one hell of a room; all black, and containing so much leather that the decorator could reasonably be arrested for genocide, if cows were legally-minded like that. 

Actually, G was pacing purely to keep in shape. He was perfectly happy and not at all frightened – he'd got all the fear out of the way back in school. The memory still sent shivers down his spine.

But anyway, right now the Chairman was feeling just fine. Carthridge, his second-in-command, as it were, had been sent out on a long, difficult job. Now G had the place all to himself; none of the silly, stupid paperwork Carthridge wasted time with. Sometimes the Chairman suspected he did it out of spite. Infuriating bastard.

His day-dream (involving things with tentacles and city-wide blazes) were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the sort of knock made by someone who desperately wanted to be allowed in but at the same time dreaded being heard by whoever was inside. G sighed. "Come in, Gregory," the assassin called, taking out a throwing knife. It was cruel, but sometimes a joke is too hard to resist.

The door opened and Trim came in, before jumping three feet in the air, hitting his head on the doorframe and crumpling on the ground with a soft moan.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said G cheerfully, helping Trim into a squashy chair that had once been called Daisy. "How are you?"

"Urrrrrgh," the man replied, whipping his forehead.

"You know," the assassin continued, thoughtfully, "I was just going to contact you, to congratulate you on making it!"

"Urrrrrgh?!" Trim groaned.

"Never mind." G shook his head and held out a tin of ginger biscuits, which the other man ignored. He took a long, mildly worried look at Trim and then frowned. "You'd better tell me everything."

After listening to a brief explanation, G sighed. "Is this Ignita we're talking about? Should be around nineteen by now? Very pretty?" He played this back in his mind and the room suddenly became twenty degrees warmer. The Patrician didn't seem to notice. Hastily, the assassin went on: "But surely you want her to do well in life?"

"Y-yes . . ." Trim was sweating even more. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly. "But not like this! My own little girl . . . what if she tries to take over from me?" His eyes widened in terror. G knew that look. It was the look people got just before acquiring the nick-name 'Mad'. "Oh, if only she would settle down and marry some nice, respectable young man . . ."

Time slowed down to a halt, as if moving through treacle. The two men's eyes met and the assassin could feel the bottom drop out of his stomach. People knew his face – it was rich, it was powerful, it was influential. It was even handsome, to boot. But right now, for the first time in years, terror was etched all over it.

G knew that once the Patrician's mind was made up on this, there would be no changing it.

Oh dear.

* * *

Cathridge's eyes travelled slowly down the list. This was most irregular. The first names were famous – gods, this was going to make him one of the wealthiest men in Ankh-Morpork – but the list finished with five unfamiliar ones, with locations and descriptions provided. The very last name he immediately stared at: 

_Gregory Trim_

With a dark smile, Carthridge folded up the list and put it in his pocket. He was old enough to remember the past as 'the good old days,' but young enough to be furious about their absence. That is a dangerous phase.

The only snag was that he had to kill them in imaginative ways. Carthridge had a very poor imagination – so far, he had come up with three places you could put a knife that would do enough damage. He shrugged and moved on to plan his first job.

* * *

After tidying up the office, Ignita took a walk through the city, accompanied by Drumknott and two other clerks. People moved aside where-ever they went. It was remarkable. 

Suddenly, the girl spun around and came face-to-face with a curious bystander who felt an inexplicable urge to bow. Instead, he tried to move away, but his legs were locked in position.

"Listen," Ignita said, with a trace of malice. She hardly knew her way around the city and, because she was female, asking for directions was a perfectly acceptable thing to do. But because she was Ignita, asking for them nicely was not an option. "Which way to the Post Office?"

Nervously, the old man answered: "You take a right at the end of the street, and then take the fifth left, and keep straight on going for about twenty-five yards."

"Right. Thank you," she added as an afterthought. Good gods, the girl reflected to herself, these people know their city. But I don't. Hmm.

Finding his legs once again mobile, the old man hurried away as fast as they would carry him.

The group strode into the old post office building. They did it properly, too. A good entrance is hard to achieve without careful planning, but occasionally it goes right. Some people just have that effect. To these people, walking is never merely a way of getting from A to B – it is a weapon. It is an art.

Ignita and the clerks cut through the crowds like a knife through bread (but not dwarf bread, obviously). She knew that people were slightly scared and awestruck. Not that she was being arrogant; it was just that they were radiating respect and a vague sort of terror. As she walked, Ignita adjusted her body language and stance very slightly in a way that read: I am more important than you. It was lying with your body, a skill she had perfected at the age of eight, but now it was so much easier. People seemed to _want_ to believe her.

In a matter of moments they had reached the main desk, where Ignita drew herself up to her full height and announced, as though she were a mythical princess declaring war: "I would like a stamp."

That was something of an anti-climax, but all the same, the woman at the counter couldn't help feeling strangely meek. As everyone else began to breathe again, she enquired kindly, "And which stamp would you like, dear- er, I mean miss?"

"A very, very large one."

"Oh. A collector, I see." The post office worker tried a kind of half-laugh, and sounded like someone trying to commit suicide with a length of hosepipe and half a litre of soy sauce. "Well, we're having the new ones with Lord Trim done up now, in fact -"

The girl interrupted with a wave of her hand. "No, no, I want one with Vetinari on it, if you please."

She seemed slightly taken aback, but quickly recovered. "Alright then, if you could come back in a few hours, I'll see what I . . . can . . ." The woman's voice tailed off to a whisper as Ignita's eyes narrowed.

There are some people who are naturally angry, even if they have nothing or nobody to be angry at. Ignita Trim was one of those people. When she found an opportunity to be mad, she pounced on it.

Her huge stamp was fetched. It wasn't just giant special edition size – it was the giant special edition size times three. It was especially special, and giantly giant.

And it was one hell of a stamp.

Despite the nervous, silent stares of the customers as she walked out, Ignita got the odd feeling that someone was pleased with her.

* * *

1 She was actually an Igorina, who had been told this was a good job for meeting boys. 


	3. Plots and Maniacs

**Hiya, avid reader(s). XD Liking the story? Well, there's a way to let me know! Do not forsake your soul! As requested, Ignita gets spoiler deleted on the with a by in this chapter. XD**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Hah. I may be a stealing, lying, cheating, dishonest, backstabbing, untrustworthy, dibbling little thief – but I am NOT infringing copyright! Thank the gods for that, eh? 3**

**Another Disclaimer: Any opinions expressed by any characters in this chapter, previous or future chapters – including (even particularly) those concerning my characters, including (even particularly) Ignita – are the sole opinions of those individuals and do not relate to or represent my own, nor are they to be understood as the truth. Geddit, goddit, good.**

**Chapter 3: Plots and Maniacs**

_**In which everyone is happy – Natural selection in action – A Death-defying mission – G makes himself useful – My Name Is Gladys – I know about Politics**_

The next morning, it became apparent that, although everybody else may be milking the 'Situation' (as it had been officially declared) for all it was worth and refusing to work, the _Times _employees were not getting any time off. There hadn't been a better week for stories since – well, since last week.

Drumknott brought Ignita a copy first thing that morning although, after considerable protest on her part, agreed to wait until she was properly dressed in future.

Sat at the desk in the Patrician's study (which she had been allowed to keep, since without her the room began to feel a little pointless (1)), the girl shovelled some breakfast into her mouth while scanning the front page.

**WATCH STRUGGLING TO CONTROL RIOTERS**

**TRIM: "INAPROPRIATE"**

In desperation, it seemed, the editor had included both of these, alongside the equally massive headline:

**HEAD THIEF ASSASSINATED – GUILD REFUSE DETAILS**

Then, mulling over this, Ignita replaced the newspaper with her gigantic stamp. It took up all the space on the table, and she stared hard at it, as if willing the image to reveal some kind of secret. It _had _to be him. No-one else would ever feel like that in this city. Somehow he was still here. Somehow he still existed, through her. Ugh. But _why?_

"Dear me. Isn't it obvious?"

There was someone behind her. She could feel his presence, so close she would have heard his breath, had he still been breathing. The secretary still hadn't heard anything!

After sending Drumknott out of the room to wait, Ignita turned slowly around. There was somebody there – she knew there was, in the same way you sometimes know someone is standing just around the corner. Whether you could see them or not doesn't have anything to do with it. His body was underground, but _he_ was still _there_.

"Well?" the girl demanded, standing up.

"Good morning," Vetinari replied, pleasantly. He went to sit in the chair, but Ignita moved in the way. Unfortunately, not having a body makes 'walking into someone' unpleasantly literal.

When they had disentangled themselves and Ignita had recovered from the embarrassment, Vetinari stood and surveyed the girl. "You certainly look the part, and your display yesterday was rather impressive. However, you have a dangerously short temper. That will have to go if you're going to last at all."

"Charming. Just tell me why you are still here and what you have done to me," she replied shortly.

"All I have done is to open up your mind a little. I have made you more open, more aware. I made you capable of receiving a little of . . . me. And as for my reasons for remaining, it is slightly embarrassing to admit that I am here because I do not wish the city to fall into the wrong hands," Vetinari explained. "It was foolish of me, I know, but . . . after a while, it is too easy to develop something of an emotional attachment, as it were."

"Oh." Ignita thought about this. "An attachment to this room, perhaps?" she suggested.

"Very sharp, too. Yes, that is an accurate – if slightly amusing – description of how I managed to remain in my study -"

"- _My_ study -"

"- After my rather unfortunate death."

"Hmm. I see," Ignita replied, still wondering if she did. "By the way, you weren't killed, were you? It's just – I know the doctors said you weren't and all that, but it's highly irregular, and . . ?"

"No, I wasn't," the man answered. "People do die of age occasionally, you know," he added coldly.

"Yes, right, how silly of me," Ignita muttered. She was standing in a room having a conversation with a dead person that she couldn't actually see. Was this one of those 'one thou_f_and _f_urprises' her father's guild was always going on about? Quite possibly.

"The fact remains, _my lord_," she snapped, piling those two words high with venom, "that you are deceased. Late. Dead."

The reply to this was so totally devoid of sarcastic tone it was practically a crime. "Why, thank you, Miss Trim. I hadn't noticed." 

Ignoring this, Ignita went on: "By definition, dead people are not alive. They do not intrude on one's personal space or fiddle with one's mind." There was a pause. Feeling that something extra was needed, the girl added, "Which you are," and immediately felt foolish.

There was a 'tsk, tsk,' sound and, slowly, a candlestick lifted itself out of a wall bracket. Ignita stared as it floated across the room towards her. Before she knew what was happening, Vetinari brought it down with a _crack _on her head and said, "That was for losing you temper. Unfortunately I barely have the power to lift a pencil at the moment, so in future would you be so kind as to do it yourself?"

"No way." She rubbed the lump on her head.

"It's a very useful technique: each time you make a mistake, hit yourself on the head. Eventually, you will either stop making mistakes or achieve unconsciousness. It's natural selection in action."

"Thanks for the tip," Ignita snarled. She was getting annoyed at him treating this like a normal chat. Although Vetinari had answered her questions, she still felt strangely like she wasn't getting any answers. "Look, if you want some kind of hero – heroine, even – you've come to the wrong place."

"Oh?" Without any eyebrows, it is obviously hard to raise them. The recent Patrician made up for this by actually pronouncing the action. "I thought you wanted power."

Ignita fidgeted. "Yes," she replied awkwardly, "yes, I did. I mean I do. But it's all a bit . . . sudden. Not like this. I didn't want to be the actual _ruler_."

Sighing, he told her, "Sadly, Miss Trim, we cannot always have what we want. I did not want to die just yet; not before a replacement had been settled on. You now have a choice before you: take control, or die in a city ruled by a madman. I will show how to take charge if you choose the former, as I seem to be the only person who does not currently think of you as 'just a girl'. If you select the second option, however, there is nothing that can help you or your father."

"Oh." The girl stared at her lap, the power suddenly gone, because now she knew he was right.

"Never again, Miss Trim," said Vetinari, and he sounded very calm, like a person who is sure that he will get his way. "I'm not having another Snapcase or Winder, not after everything I've done."

"A ray of light between two eternities of darkness," Ignita murmured. "Er, nothing," she said hurriedly, looking up. "Look, the city's not ready for a female Patrician. Hells, I don't even know what we'd call a female Patrician – a Patricianess? But that doesn't even matter, because it's not going to happen." She said with an air of finality, "Greenferry will never get rid of my father."

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, both looking at the headline about the Chairman of the Thief's Guild. Then the girl blurted out, "What am I saying? Can you teach me?"

Vetinari smiled, despite not exactly having a mouth to smile with.

* * *

**T**HIS IS RIDICULOUS.

Go directly to the end of your life. Take a left, second right, straight up and you'll reach Death's Domain.

**I**T'S MAKING A MOCKERY OF THE WHOLE SYSTEM.

There you'll find a man doing something with a frying pan containing an Unidentifiable Frying Object. Still, it had been bacon in some past life, so Albert decided it was probably safe.

**I**T'S NOT EVEN AN OFFICIAL HAUNTING.

You will also find the skeleton of a rat, sitting on a shelf in a room full of the quiet, continuous hissing of the lifetimers and wondering what sand tastes like.

**H**E'S NOT EVEN A GHOST.

You will also find the anthropomorphic personification of Death sitting at a large wooden desk. Well, almost a desk. It was exactly like a desk in every way – except that it _wasn't_ _actually_ a desk. (2)

Death drummed his fingers on it. Next to the usual curiosity – that wizard whose lifetimer was _still_ twisting and turning like a roller-coaster – was now another one. It was perfectly normal, except that all the fine, black sand had run through to the bottom and now a pale, translucent version was falling, piling on top of the more alive sand. Well, it had always looked like that. The smallest slither of sand at the top had always been somehow less substantial than normal, but Death hadn't thought much of it, until now.

He cast another glance at the tall, black lifetimer labelled _**Havelock Vetinari. **_Really, there was only one thing to do, but he was putting it off. It is rude to take someone's soul _twice, _after all. But it had to be done.

Besides, he was still curious as to how the man had clung onto the world of the living. The whole situation was most puzzling.

Placing the lifetimer inside his robe, Death got to his feet and went to saddle up Binky. Death-defying missions are always exciting, but usually doomed. Because Death doesn't like being defied.

* * *

"Right. So we've sorted out his therapist, sold some of your old stuff before it got stolen, and acquainted me with some of your . . . er . . . informers." Ignita checked them off on her fingers. "And there's someone on her way to discuss the gol-"

She was cut off by rapid nocks on the study door. She cast a questioning glance at the patch of air occupied by Vetinari's personality before calling, "Come in."

Trim entered, followed closely be Drumknott, who had one hand on the smaller man's shoulder. After forcing him into a chair, the secretary whispered, "I think his lordship is pretty close to the edge, Miss Trim. I would advise you not to make any sudden movements."

With a small nod, Ignita stared her father in the eyes. He was quivering, and kept throwing looks over his shoulder, as if worried about attack from behind. (Or possibly, in front.)

"Hello, father," she said, calmly. "Was there something you wanted to say to me?"

"Yes," Trim, replied, hesitantly, before allowing the rest of the sentence to burst out, like a river breaking its damn. "I-have-some-good-news-and-some-bad-news-which-would-you-like-first," he practically screamed. To watch, you would have thought that each word was burning his tongue.

"Er . . ." Ignita mentally slowed this down. "Surprise me," she answered eventually.

"Well-I-have-found-you-a-husband," her father rushed, like he was trying to get it over with as quickly as possible.

A very determined silence descended. It was reluctant to let go of the two, but eventually gave way to the girl, who snarled, "You WHAT?" Anything would give way to someone speaking in capital letters like that. "To WHOM?"

"Head-Assassin-dear," Trim went on. His brain had shut down and his mouth was now running along on its own.

After a long silence, she groaned. That man was so damn _nice_. On the rare occasions when she'd met Mr Deral, he'd been charming and laid-back to the point of being annoying. And he'd been attractive, too. At the time it had struck her how inconsiderate that was. When you are an irritable adolescent girl who always has Better Things to do, the last thing you want is to spend half an hour in the presence of a friendly, attractive young man. It's humiliating.

But being married to him was a completely different matter. The idea of being married to anyone, in fact, made Ignita squirm. Trim must have lost his mind.

"And what's the good news?" she hissed quietly, which was somehow more terrifying than her shouting. (This was one reason she did it. The other was that she had just seen the candlestick move slightly.)

"Well-actually-dear-that-was-the-good-news . . ."

* * *

**H**ERE WE GO AGAIN . . . **AGAIN.**

The white horse galloped happily through the sky. His rider considered how easy it must be to be a horse, and suddenly realised what the look of relief his customers' faces often bore was all about.

The Palace came into view. Death pulled to a halt, thought for a moment, and sighed, which is an expressive sound at the worst of times, but coming from someone who doesn't have any lungs is a sure sign that things are getting _really _bad.

This was going to be a lot harder than he had first anticipated. Now he came to think about it, Death wasn't even certain that he was doing the sensible thing. The lifetimer was, after all, just the same as it had always been. No sand had been added, as such. It wasn't running backwards, which is always a good sign. But all the same . . . 

"So what was the BAD news?"

Ignita had gone back to yelling. Not as effective as intimidating quietness or unnerving calmness, but hells, it felt better.

A barely coherent mumble escaped Mr Trim's lips, but it was just clear enough for the others to catch. He threw another glance over his shoulder and nearly fell of his chair when he saw Drumknott standing there.

The girl's head was in her hands. _"I can't do this, I can't do this," _she kept whispering so only Vetinari could hear. The dead man himself was working up the energy for another swing with the candlestick.

After the secretary carefully escorted Lord Trim from the study, his former employer took aim and was about to bring it down on Ignita's head when the girl looked up and caught it just in time. "Did you hear that?" she fumed. "Did you hear what he had the nerve to say?"

"Calm down, Miss Trim. You will never make a Patrician unless you learn to not show your, er, rage. Believe me, rage is a major setback in this line of work."

"I'll never make a Patrician – or the correct female equivalent – at all now!" she wailed, before pulling herself together. A sudden change came over her. "It's all right," she said, calmly, or at least so angrily she'd had reached calmness from the other side, "I can stay indoors. Of course I can. I like it here. I don't need to go out, after all. Because I know someone who can." Suddenly Ignita grinned nastily.

"Don't look at me," Vetinari said immediately, "I'm tethered either to the study, or to you."

"I wasn't talking about you, Lifeless," the girl replied. "If he's going to be my husband, he may as well start making himself useful . . ."

* * *

Trim balled his fists, and then relaxed them again. He kept clenching and unclenching them like this until there was a sharp knock on the door.

"What?" the Patrician bellowed, slamming his hands on the table. In his mind, a thousand threats and enemies came through the door. Very quickly these images were replaced by the slightly more welcome one of Mr Langley, his therapist.

"So, Mr Trim," Langley said in a kind, rather patronising voice, "it seems you require more regular appointments due to your new . . . position?"

"I do?" Trim blinked. "Oh, right! I do! You know, it's crazy, isn't it, it's not until you've been through it yourself that you realise why the rest all went insane!"

Langley nervously replied, "Er, yes, my lord. Of course. Now, I want you to relax – we don't want a repetition of the stomach ulcer incident, now do we? – and tell me what's bothering you." After a quick look at his client's face, the therapist quickly added, "The most."

It took a long time, by the end of which Langley was firmly convinced that his lordship was well on his way to being absolutely loopy. The only reason he had lasted this long, it seemed, was that people tended to like him, in the same way that it is easy to like a goldfish. You know it can't tell what you're thinking, and certainly can't harm you at all. There are many people who keep goldfish simply because they are the only creatures that can't outsmart them.

"And _he_ never, ever had my problems!" Trim burbled. "The bastard! All Vetinari had to cope with was dragons and war and so forth! He never had a teenage daughter! When she gets that glow . . . I just want to do what she says . . . it's scary . . ."

Langley, a ridiculously tall and skinny man, was used to raves like this. "Well, I can assure you, my lord, that you really are perfectly safe." Trim evidently didn't believe it. "In fact, I hear tell – news gets around quickly here – that two golems have actually been ordered for your own protection! What do you think of that, eh?"

Clearly, this was the wrong thing to say. Terror glowed in the Patrician's eyes. "G-golems?" he stuttered, shrinking even further into his chair. "I hate them! Didn't you know that I hate golems?"

"Well, I do now, sir."

"Urgh! Golems! There's something . . . _unnatural_ about them. Something . . . inhuman . . ."

"Well, you know, my lord, they are actually not humans -"

"That's not the point!" Trim's eyes unfocused. He was, once again, terrified of invisible death-threats and murderers from every angle.

Of course, they all went crazy in the end, but it had never happened this quickly before. In a way, this was good. Once a man has really had a chance to establish power, actual power in the city, it is then that madness becomes a truly dangerous thing.

There was a loud, slow knock at the study door. Seeing that the Patrician was burbling quietly in his chair, Langley stood up and opened the door hesitantly.

"Good Morning. My Name Is Gladys."

* * *

A young man stood in the Oblong Office, shaking. He had always had to deal with Vetinari on a regular basis, and yes, it had been painful, but eventually you get used the lightening-quick smile and all that. This, though, was different. This girl was smiling _all the time._ It wasn't natural.

Not to mention that they were technically engaged. That was a problem that definitely hadn't arisen with the last one.

"Now, Mr Deral," Ignita said sweetly, "as you are no doubt aware, my father – a good friend of yours, I believe – is losing his mind."

G nodded. He couldn't bring himself to do anything else.

"And so I have taken it upon myself to replace him."

This time, the assassin spluttered. "But – you're just a girl . . . erm . . ." Suddenly he realised that there was a time and a place for sexual stereotyping, and both were far, far away from Ignita Trim.

_Just a girl,_ she thought. _Yes. I am, aren't I? Well, I'll show this idiot what a girl can do._

Staring him in the eyes, she went on in a dark voice, "That is why, my dear fiancé, you are going to help me."

"I – I am?"

"If you wish to, naturally," she replied. "Freedom of choice, and so forth. If at any point during this conversation you feel uncomfortable-"

G waved a hand. "Alright, alright, I'm listening."

Ignita grinned. It crossed the man's mind once again how pretty she was. Pretty, but unpleasant.

"I thought you'd see it my way. Now, G, as I have found myself temporarily unable to leave this palace, I will depend largely on you to bring me information. There are others, but let's say I feel the need for . . . trust."

For a while, nobody spoke. G was considering the various possible meanings of the word 'trust.' The girl was rocking backwards on her chair. Vetinari, invisible, was admiring his handiwork.

After giving him long enough to ponder this, Ignita declared happily, "So we have an agreement!"

The assassin stared as politely as possible. "I may be mistaken, of course, Miss Trim . . . but I was under the impression that, in general, an agreement was something that was actually agreed upon? By more than one person?"

"Please," she insisted, "call me Ignita! There's no need for such formality, dear. And yes, I rather think that in this case we do agree, do we not?"

_Ah, _G thought, _that kind of agreement. It's almost like she's been taking lessons from him. _He nodded.

It seemed to Ignita that this was the time for some improvisation. Vetinari wouldn't like it. Hells, he'd probably copyrighted it. That was a thought that made her smile. "Please don't let me detain you!"

The assassin didn't.

When he had left, Drumknott turned. "He's gone, Miss," he pointed out.

"Yes, thank you for letting me know," the girl said pleasantly. She was wondering how her secretary was going to react to that last little comment.

The thing about clerks is that they are usually trained not to react. But Drumknott couldn't help it. He'd spent more time than was logical, considering the human lifespan, not reacting to almost anything anyone said, unless it was a direct instruction or the odd question when his lordship was in a thoughtful mood. He was so good at not reacting, in fact, that he sometimes had to bring himself to react at all. But this time it was too . . . strange. All at once he was just a worried secretary being pulled into the big, bad world of politics.

"Are you really going to try to take over from your father?"

They were both surprised. Since when did he ask questions like that?

"Yes, Drumknott, I am," Ignita said, levelly.

"But . . . you don't know anything about politics . . . you're just a -"

Ignita wasn't especially athletic, obviously, but there are some things that just have to be done, regardless of skill. She vaulted the desk, her chair thudding to the ground, and stood face-to-face with her secretary. (3)

"Excuse me, Drumknott, but if you have any problems with working for a girl, would you get out now, please? I'm sure there are plenty of pleasant people up for the job – maybe even some of them won't even try to kill me."

"Er – I . . ."

"Politics? I know all about politics. It's a game for stupid boys who think they're being tough, isn't it?"

Although he would never admit it, the clerk had occasionally found himself thinking something not that different from what Ignita had just said.

"It's walking on a thin line between success and death, isn't it, Drumknott? It's a hard game where the rules keep changing and the spectators mean _everything_. You never know what it's going to do next. Best to stick to nice, sensible numbers, eh?"

Listen to her, a deep, coaxing instinct sang in the back of Drumknott's mind. Let's do this the easy way. Stick to numbers. That's your job, isn't it? Do what you're told and stick to numbers.

He hadn't been this confused in years; the last time someone had scared him in this job, it had turned out not to have happened in the first place, which is confusing grammatically speaking but reassuring, in a way. And after all, being stabbed is a whole lot better than plotting rebellion, because stabbed people sometimes survive.

Yes, argued the voice, but right now it doesn't look like you have a whole lot of choice, does it? The girl is him reborn. Well, he thought, when you put it like that . . .

Drumknott left to deal with the numbers. Ignita got the distinct impression that someone was raising an eyebrow at her.

"You can't be me, you know," Vetinari pointed out.

"Yes, yes," the girl replied, still smiling faintly. "I remember the case with the Lavish fellow. Awful. But did you see the look on that stuck-up assassin's face? Absolutely priceless!"

"You're in a good mood, I see."

"I know! Ridiculous, don't you think?"

"If not ridiculous, then at least extremely foolish."

"Aren't I allowed a little fun before I settle down and become supreme dictator? You tyrant."

"Why, thank you."

* * *

(1) Her father had set up another, nicer study downstairs, so everyone was happy.

(2) As you can see, this is one of those chapters in the history of Discworld that takes place predominantly in studies. Surprisingly, they are sometimes the most interesting ones, because it is amazing the things people who live in studies think up to do to each other.

(3) Well, face-to-chest, more like. She was tall, but Drumknott was taller.


	4. Falling

**Okay, you know the drill. Please review unless you wish to be cast into the eternal flames of a hell of your choice. And by the way, watch the videos I've linked to on my profile, or your stay will be doubled. Mwahaha. They are effectively theme songs. In a few chapters' time I will tell you G's too, but right now it's a spoiler. ;)**

**The mention of the Undertaking in this chapter is a purely uninformed one, and should you be reading this at a time when the precise nature of his lordship's plans is known, I apologise for any inaccuracy. Plus I have actually worked it out, and if my guesses are right she **_**was**_** about three.**

**Disclaimer: Tee hee, '**_**disc**_**-laimer'. Sorry, I'm in a fangirl kinda mood. If you think I'm Terry Pratchett, please boil your head for the good of society. (But don't forget to review first.)**

**Chapter four: Falling**

_**Which begins, once again, with our villain – Who enters into dealings with assassins – Like we used to – To the letter – The interesting thing about journeys**_

Greenferry picked up something off his coffee table. It had to be a paperweight, because people don't keep maces on coffee tables. Had he seen it in any other context, he would have been immediately inclined to believe it was a mace. But maces are never, ever found on coffee tables. So it was obviously a paperweight.

After inspecting the definitely-not-a-mace, Greenferry was about to drop it on the table when he realised that doing so would not only do considerable damage to his imported Klatchian coffee table, but to anybody who happened to be standing downstairs, as well.

It was amazing, the sort of thing that turned up on this table. He assumed it was to do with the Igors, who delighted in leaving obscure and often nameless objects around the large house, which Laetissimus had lived in since he had inherited at sixteen. His family had all died in Mysterious Circumstances, and of course everyone knows what that actually _means_.

The Igor who was really an Igorina appeared at the door. "Letter for you, thur," she announced.

"Come in," Greenferry said, absent-mindedly. Igorina, who had already come in, stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before approaching her master, who was now drawing perfect concentric circles on his paperwork. She handed him the letter and backed away hurriedly. Very few things can unnerve an Igor, but she was young and inexperienced and, after all, this man was paying her salary.

To Igorina's immense discomfort, Greenferry picked up a knife, which he used to slit open the envelope. A single sheet of paper fell out. The man read it briefly.

_Dear Sir,_

_There are some difficulties in dispatching the next item on the list. I fear that the assignment will not be completed in the time you specified. Advise please._

_C.C._

Without so much as a blink, Greenferry went back to drawing circles.

* * *

**T**HIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME, WITH ANY – TO USE A MORE RIDICULOUS HUMAN EXPRESSION – LUCK.

Binky tossed his head at neighed with delight. How could a horse not be delighted in his circumstances? Alright, his rider was somewhat bony, but it was a small price to pay for the chance to gallop freely across the sky and just _be._ Horses are good at _being _– a lot better than humans, at any rate, who always seem to have to be _doing._

Death had thought it all through and had come to a conclusion. Whether it was a sensible one or not, he couldn't judge, but he would soon find out.

* * *

Opening his study door, G sidestepped the crossbow bolt and shook his head, sadly. "We just don't train them like we used to . . ." he murmured to no-one in particular.

G Deral gave the impression of one who was always at ease. He displayed no visible signs of tension or alertness.

But he had taken over the assassin's guild when he was twenty, and had kept it for an almost record-breaking five years. That showed a slightly different aspect of his personality.

In the course of his life, G had rejected a great many young women, most of which had subsequently began vendettas against him and later wished they hadn't. The reason for this was not that he had any sort of pride or fear of settling down – he just didn't really like girls very much. They were an alien species. Some of them were pretty, but that was about the extent of his knowledge or interest in them.

_I'm getting married to Ignita Trim_. The girl was one of those classed as Good Looking in his mind, but somewhere at the bottom of his list of People I Might Someday Marry If Things Go Really Downhill. Still, it looked like there may be a way out of this, if she did somehow get the job . . .

Madness. Still, he sat down and took out a pen, which weighed just slightly more than it should do. Tossing it out of the window, he pulled one out of his jacket and wrote:

_10.30: Someone tried to kill me._

Then, after sucking the end of the pen a moment, he added:

_Twice._

Then he tucked away the pen and paper and stepped out onto the street, tripping up the man who was standing by the door with a blackjack.

* * *

"You don't like him?"

"How could I?"

Ignita, bored, began to fill in the _Times _crossword.

"Well, economically speaking, it's a wonderful opportunity."

"Are you seriously telling me I should marry that creep?"

" . . . No. Not as such, no. And, by the way, three down is 'protectorate'."

"I knew that." The girl sighed. "Anyway, times have changed! I don't need a husband to get things done! Isn't this Ankh-Morpork? Isn't this the century of the . . . fruitbat?"

Vetinari corrected her, "It's actually the century of the utopian banana at the moment. The century of the fruit bat ended some years ago."

"Right, well, that just goes to show." Ignita sniffed. "And _you _know all about change. _You _fixed this city. I was three," she added helpfully.

"It's remarkable that you managed to remain three for my entire period in office."

"I mean the Undertaking!"

"Ah, that."

The two of them fell silent. The only sounds were the movements of Ignita's pencil, and the general, bustling, you-do-your-thing-and-I'll-do-mine noises of the city. Eventually, the girl stood up and went to look out of the window.

"_Wow_."

Vetinari politely came up behind her. "Do you like the view?"

"I _love_ the view. No wonder you always knew what was going on . . ."

"No, you can thank Drumknott and his excellent colleagues for that. But this is why I always had such a good sense of proportion."

"Oh. Er, excuse me . . ."

"Yes?"

Ignita coughed. "Is it just me, or . . . is a skeleton with a scythe coming right at us out of the sky?"

* * *

In general, golems do not wear clothes because a) they are made of clay and b) they are made of clay. However, it is often not what is _true _that matters, but what people _believe_. And anyway, insanity is catching.

"Excuse Me, My Lord, But I Have Instructions To Escort You Everywhere."

Trim gritted his teeth. Sweat was pouring off his forehead. "Yes, yes, very good!"

After a pause, Gladys replied, "I Would Find It A Lot Easier To Carry Out My Duty Were My Head Not Lodged In The Door, My Lord." She could have broken out in a matter of seconds, but the little human was leaning against the door, and she had been given express instructions not to harm him.

"Right, right, fine." Trim fell away from the door and collapsed in a chair. Gladys and her colleague, Mr Drill, came into his office and took up positions on either side of the desk.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, the patrician gasped, "So can you tell me who you were hired by?"

"No, My Lord."

"Why not?"

"We Cannot Tell You That, Either."

Trim glared. "Golems! I hate them."

Slowly, Langley emerged from a corner, making his employer jump. "Er, your lordship," the psychiatrist said hesitantly, "may I make a suggestion?" After being nodded at by Trim, he went on explain. "Many people do not understand the precise . . . workings of golems. They will take instructions to heart, and obey them to the letter."

"And . . ?"

"I suspect that these two were instructed not to tell you anything about the nature of the employment. However," Langley cried, before Trim had a chance to interrupt him, "They may not have any orders concerning _me_."

Realisation dawned on the Patrician's face. "So… they can tell you who hired them?"

"I all probability, my lord." Turning his gaze on Gladys and Mr Drill, the psychiatrist demanded, "Who paid you to follow the Patrician?"

Eyes glowing, Gladys replied, "It Was His Daughter."

"I knew it!" Trim cried triumphantly.

"But then why did-"

"She's out to get me!"

"But sir, she-"

Langley stared at his gibbering wreck of an employer. With a sigh, he left, locking the door from the outside.

* * *

"Oh dear." Vetinari sat down in the chair. "Miss Trim, are you aware of the fact that death is personified in the form of a large human skeleton which carries aforementioned farming implement and rides a rather intelligent white horse who I believe goes by the name of Binky?"

Ignita didn't look at him. "I am now." She continued to stare out of the window.

As Death drew nearer, the girl began to sweat. It wasn't the idea of meeting him, as such. It was more that she had a pretty good idea of why he was here, and a less good idea of whether her commanding air would work on him. Then, of course, there was the . . .

**G**OOD MORNING. **I**'M SORRY TO BREAK UP THE PARTY AND EVERYTHING, BUT THERE ARE RULES.

Doing a rather fine job of making herself impressive-looking, Ignita replied, "You have no permission to be in this palace. Please -"

Death cut her off, without actually saying anything. He just stared at her through the tiny blue supernovas of his eyes and the girl felt that the voice had been stolen from her throat. She contented herself with glaring at the skeleton, and left the talking to Vetinari.

"I believe that there has been something of a misunderstanding," the man began, but Death seemed to think differently.

**I **BELIEVE THAT THERE HAS IN FACT BEEN A MISTAKE. **H**OWEVER, THINGS ARE STILL VERY UNCERTAIN AND, ON THIS OCCASION, **I **AM WILLING TO . . . COMPROMISE.

Slowly, Vetinari raised a cautious eyebrow. "In what way?"

**Y**OU – AND, SHOULD YOU DESIRE IT, THE GIRL – WILL COME WITH ME TO DO A LITTLE INVESTIGATING.

"Hey!"

They both turned to see Ignita breathing deeply and looking the picture of indignation. "If _he_ desires it? What about me?"

After a pause, Death replied, **I **AM SORRY. _**D**__O_ YOU WANT TO COME?

"Well . . . yes. But it's a matter of principle."

**O**F COURSE.

"I mean, I'm only coming so he doesn't get into any trouble."

**N**ATURALLY.

"And if you tried to make me, I'd dig my heels in."

**I**T'S ONLY TO BE EXPECTED. **N**OW, IF YOU TWO WOULD BE SO KIND AS TO GET ON **B**INKY.

All at once, Ignita's determination seemed to vanish. She looked about six years younger. "Wh-what?"

Already climbing peacefully onto the big horse, Vetinari looked around at the sound of her uncertainty. "Really, Miss Trim, what else were you expecting? A broomstick, perhaps?"

"Umm, umm . . ." She looked genuinely horrified.

"There's no time for this. Get on the horse, Miss Trim."

"But I-"

"Get on the horse, _now_."

"I can't-"

"_Now_."

He didn't raise his voice, but Ignita still flinched. She'd met some nasty people – many of them her own extended family – but hadn't often encountered that fearsome creature known as Havelock Vetinari In A Hurry.

Cursing herself, she got on the horse.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was trying to!"

They had to scream to be heard above the rush of the wind. Ignita, who had her arms wrapped tightly around Death's middle, was trying to simultaneously get as far away from Binky and keep herself firmly on his back.

She couldn't help it. Ever since she could remember, horses in any shape or form had terrified her. As a child, she had been given a wooden rocking horse that had white, painted eyes. Each night, those eyes had stared at her out of the darkness. The memory still made her shudder.

Eventually, she'd thrown the thing out of a third-story window.

"So you're hippophobic." He repeated the word blankly. "How convenient."

"Shut up." Ignita elbowed Vetinari and suddenly realised how solid he was becoming. It must have been to do with the whole walking-through-walls thing. Maybe he was more real than the walls gave him credit for.

"Ouch." They journeyed on in silence for a while until a gasp was heard from the man.

"What?" Ignita demanded, her voice slightly muffled by Death's robe.

He sighed. "The view, Miss Trim. It's rather more spectacular than the one from my study window."

"_My_ study, I think you'll find. And anyway, I've got a perfectly good view of my eyelids, thank you so very much."

Vetinari kicked her. "You realise this is more than most people will ever dream of?"

"Have nightmares of, more li-"

She didn't finish that sentence, because at that moment the girl lost her grip, was wrenched into the air by the force of the wind, and tumbled, screaming, towards the Disc.

The interesting, and ironically normally highly frustrating thing about journeys is that so often one does not reach one's destination.


	5. The Nature of Corn

**Oh gods, it's been about a millennium since I last updated. :(**** Sorry.**

**Disclaimer: Why am I always listening to Diamond Dogs when I write my disclaimers?? o.O Some law of the universe, I suppose.**

**Chapter Five: The Nature of Corniness**

_**Lawyers and their role in the process of death – A difficult situation – Alarm mode – So we'll know – Modern Society – Extremely stupid**_

It is said that if you throw someone out of a top storey window, they will clacks their lawyer on the way down.

This is, of course, not true. Mostly because someone who is about to die is usually too busy realising one of two things: either all those things they were going to do tomorrow, or by next week at least, or at the very latest the week after, really should have been done earlier, or that those things no longer matter and so there is no point feeling worried about them.

As you can see, lawyers play little part in either of these trains of thought. Unless the one about to die is (1) a lawyer, of course. And Ignita wasn't, so the last thing that was on her mind as she tried to come to terms with the fact that she was going to die was Mr Sadiste, a lawyer whom her family had been employing for eight generations. This is what she was actually thinking:

_I'm going to die._

_No, I can't die. That's never happened before; why should it happen now?_

_Plenty of reasons._

_I'm going to die._

_Vetinari's going to disappear._

_My city is going to die. My father and my brothers are going to die. My secretary and my cousins and G are going to die. Everyone I know is finished._

See? Not a lawyer in sight.

Meanwhile, Death had adjusted Binky's path and was riding at high speed towards the falling girl. He was not worried at all – she wasn't going to die. Not yet. Exactly what would happen to save her, he didn't know, though he had a very good idea. And he knew for certain that it would happen very, very soon.

Vetinari watched Ignita fall away from them. Not entirely sure how to react, he felt the horse beneath him jerk and gallop downwards. It was clear they would never catch up with her, though Binky was charging downwards, bringing his riders close enough to see the girl's expression of pure horror. It was a sight that jolted him so hard that he nearly lost his grip too.

Death must have sensed this moment of uncertainty, because he chose that second to dig a bony elbow into his passenger's ribs. Vetinari, alarmed, wobbled and half-fell off Binky, but managed to dig his heels into the horse's side. It all took less than a second. The resulting position was highly awkward and very undignified, as it left Vetinari dangling sideways off the horse, and dangerously close to death. Oh dear, let me rephrase that. Dangerously close to no longer being close to Death.

It is a well-known fact that the laws of physics tend to bend for those in desperate need, if they are on a quest of enough importance. It is vital that you remember this.

Ignita's fingers brushed the man's and within a second she had grabbed his hand.

Everything went very still.

* * *

"For the last time, Mr Deral, you can't come in."

"Yes I bloody well can!"

"I'm afraid you bloody well can't while I'm standing in front of this door. Though I'd prefer it if there was no blood involved."

That was Drumknott – single-minded as ever. Rufus Famulus Drumknott. G eyed the clerk warily and came to the conclusion that, well, someone had to do the adding up, and it may as well be him. Beginning to pace, once again only for exercise, the assassin wondered aloud, "How long have you been working here, then?"

"Longer than is logical."

"Oh." G couldn't think of anything else to say, so he repeated it for good measure. "Oh."

He really had to see Ignita. It really, really was a matter of really real urgency. Unfortunately, a sign was now pinned to the door:

**NO STRANGERS**

**NO MEN**

**NO ARMED PEOPLE**

**NO TIME-WASTERS**

**NO RELIGIOUS FANATICS**

In smaller writing, someone had added:

_No Religious People at all Whatsoever._

_And No pets. And No-one who Owns a pet or has a Brother who owns a Pet, or has any kind of Nasty disease or likes music with Rocks In on Account of being A Bad Influence._

This, of course, had been put up under the instructions of the Patrician, who was currently refusing to leave his own room. (2) It also left G in a somewhat difficult situation that could only be resolved with a large magnet, some screens, a very talented Igor and possibly a turnip.

He sighed. Then he did something he really didn't want to do. He got to his feet, squashed down a few painful memories of school and . . . other things, and pressed his ear to the wall just next to the door of the Oblong Office.

G listened hard; so hard, in fact, the sound of Drumknott's breathing began to hurt his ears. The assassin picked up the distant noise of an asthmatic beetle somewhere further down the corridor, the clang of pans in the kitchens, numerous heartbeats . . . his memories welled up again, threatening to burst out of his head and leave a rather nasty mess on the skirting board.

They were crushed down. One of the problems – and there are many – with having the gift of astonishingly good hearing is that sounds become like colours: they evoke billions of different emotions and reawaken unwanted memories.

Footsteps on the street – G reached further with his ears, holding his breath, closing his eyes, feeling the world by sound alone – and voices. He heard the familiar sound of Cut-My-Own-Throat Dibbler advertising his wares, and the rather more unpleasant one of people who had just bought them. But not a single sound came from inside the study, except an insect humming. No breathing, no heartbeat. Ignita wasn't there.

Staring with horror at Drumknott, who looked back impassively, the assassin tried to decide which was more horrible: the possibility that she had run away, or the possibility that she hadn't.

Not that he liked her or anything like that. Oh, no. But somehow, a disused and unwanted part of G's brain quietly insisted that the girl was an uncomfortable necessity. She was like a barrier between him and, well, Chaos.

"She's gone," G said, hoarsely. "Ignita's not there."

There was no reply. Drumknott blinked at him a few times.

"Open the damn door, will you, my fiancé is missing!" G snapped, suddenly infuriated by the other man's steady gaze.

Drumknott looked blank. He usually looked blank, come to that, but now he took extra care to look _especially_ blank. "I seriously doubt that, Mr Deral."

"Well, I don't," he replied hotly. "And I'd strongly advise you not to disagree with me!"

There was a moment of speed, and the younger man found himself dangling a few centimetres off the ground. Sometimes sheer strength is worth more than all the small pointy things in the world.

"Don't threaten me ever again, Mr Deral," said the clerk calmly, as if discussing the weather. G was lowered slowly to the ground.

"Oh . . . okay." Desperately, the assassin tried to think of how to appeal to him. Drumknott seemed to have plenty of better nature, but it was hard to get at. Sadly for G, his only real strength when it came to people was his amiability; usually, all it took was a smile and people skills were no longer necessary.

"Look," said G, rubbing his head in an attempt to make the thoughts come quicker. "You open the door for me, alright, and if I'm wrong then there's no harm done and I can go on my way, yes?" He tried not to make this sound like a plea, in case anyone who was listening thought he liked the girl.

With a slight shrug, Drumknott replied, "I suppose you won't go away until I open the door, will you?"

"No."

"Fine . . ."

The first thing the men noticed about the Oblong Office was that it was completely devoid of human life. It was also the last thing they noticed, because after that their brains spiralled into alarm mode and were completely unfit for noticing anything.

* * *

Casuistory Carthridge was born in a tiny village on the Sto Plains. What happened between that and his enrolment into the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Assassins was a complete mystery (possibly even to Casuistory himself). However, it was certain that he had led a successful, though utterly unimaginative, career in assisting people to leave their often unsatisfactory lives. In a way, you could say he was doing them a favour, albeit an unimaginative one.

On this particular evening, he was sitting on the wall surrounding Unseen University, watching a small group of young students trying unsuccessfully to set up a complicated lump of machinery. Watching other people in distress always calmed him down.

In fact the machine was for measuring smell. Experiments using human and canine noses had proved catastrophic, mostly because they tended to close down in self-defence when faced with the whole horrific stench of Ankh-Morpork. When people asked the students _why_ they wanted to know how much the city stank, they generally looked perplexed and replied, "So we'll _know_."

Should anyone have looked up, they would _not_ have seen a thin man in black sigh inwardly and turn to look across the rooftops of the city. They would not have seen him stretch and silently move off into the twilight.

And they certainly wouldn't have seen the large orange shape that watched him go.

You don't get far as an assassin unless you're clever, but that doesn't mean to say you can't be an idiot, too.

* * *

Whimpering, the supreme ruler of the greatest city on the Disc snatched a glance through his curtains. Night was creeping over Ankh-Morpork, reaching out its slimy black tentacles to swallow him up.

Gregory Trim returned to his camp under the desk and closed his eyes. After all, it stands to reason that as darkness is just a state, if you can't see it, it's not there, and therefore it wouldn't be night so long has he didn't look at it.

And two days ago he was perfectly sane.

Langley, after making some detailed observations, had concluded that what had been created was a sort of benign despot. The despot part was unavoidable, of course; tradition demanded certain things, but as yet Trim hadn't actually had anyone put to death, which was a good start.

Paranoia is actually quite normal. It's healthy to be paranoid to certain degree.

This is where most people fall down, either by taking the whole thing too far and sterilising their curtains every five minutes, or by relaxing and getting killed.

Very few people (including a certain senior assassin) manage to get this right, by combining a reasonable amount of stress with a good portion of common sense. Sadly, these people are generally seen as strange, which only goes to demonstrate the painful irony of modern society.

* * *

**T**HAT WAS EXTREMELY STUPID, YOU KNOW.

"I know."

**J**UST THOUGHT **I**'D CHECK.

Slowly, painfully, hardly daring to speak, Vetinari dragged Ignita onto Binky's back. At once, Death set off again, allowing the humans to sort themselves out.

Panting, the girl tried to come to terms with this bizarre event. "You saved me," she half-asked, half-stated.

"Well, actually, it was entirely by -"

Ignita cut in. "You like me, don't you?"

"I assure you, Miss Trim, I am only here to do business. You are helping me, and I am helping you. What gave you the idea that I am partial to you?"

"You saved me."

Vetinari decided not to point out that this had been an accident. He knew that Ignita didn't believe herself anyway, be far too sensible to imagine him given to dangerous emotions. Still, it might be useful to gain her complete trust, if she was ever going to marry the Deral person.

Why couldn't she see how foolish she was being? Deral wasn't stupid, but he was easy enough to manipulate, and extremely wealthy. He had power. As marriages of convenience went, this was the most convenient imaginable. Ignita had a lot of pride, which was not a bad thing, but ideally people should do what he said. Maybe he should try the Commander Vimes tactic.

All these things passed through Vetinari's head as the three (plus horse) came ever nearer to Death's home. When Binky touched gracefully down, it dawned on both humans that this was not a house. Not a real house.

It had everything a house needed, in the right places, but . . . there is something familiar about all houses, no matter how strange they are. They have a sort of 'I am a house' signal that beams straight into your head. This not-a-house was missing it.

It was the same with the corn. It waved just like corn did (3), but somehow it didn't give the impression of having grown, in the conventional sense. There was no vague memory of earth and darkness, no history, no actual life to the corn. It just looked and acted exactly like corn, which is not at all the same thing as _being_ corn. It had, you might say, lost its corniness.

I hope someone's writing this down.

As Death led Ignita and Vetinari through into his library, a sense of uneasiness descended on the girl, which she was determined not to show. It would make a good exercise in Patrician-ship.

Or Patricianess-ship. Or even Matrician-ship. She made a mental note to look it up when she got home.

"Oh, good gods."

* * *

(1) Was.

(2) Partly because he was paranoid, and partly because he was locked in there and nobody could see the point in letting him out.

(3) Presumably. They had both spent most of their lives in Ankh-Morpork, where corn wouldn't wave if you paid it.


	6. Compromise

**My excuse for lateness this time is a good one: my laptop crashed. Damn you, Microsoft. Plus I had evil, evil exams. Nothing much actually happens in this chapter, and it's v. v. short, but G and Drumknott get to insult each other. D Ignita has a face! I've put a link to Maggoty Anne's cool drawing of her on my profile.**

**Irreverently musical disclaimer: /sings/ **_**Zip-a-dee-doo-da/Zip-a-dee-day/My oh my, what a wonderful way/To say I don't own this/Nope, never, no way/So tell your solicitor/To please go away.**_

**Chapter Five: Compromise**

_**In which slanderous insults are exchanged –- 'EVERYONE, EVER' – Ignita sees the truth – Life story**_

"Where is she?"

"For a clerk you're very stupid, aren't you? If I knew, I'd go looking for her!"

Both equally flustered, the two men ran down the many corridors towards the Patrician's office. G had to keep stopping for Drumknott to get his breath back, because it is very hard to keep pace with a fully trained assassin at the peak of fitness when the greatest physical exertion you have gone to for the last twenty years is filing.

When at last they arrived at Trim's office door, they found it locked. "Open up! Quickly!" G yelled, hammering on the wood. "Get out here!"

There was no reply. The assassin slumped visibly and banged his head on the wood, moaning. After watching this for a few moments, Drumknott lazily touched the wall panel that opened the 'back door' into the office.

G glared, but followed the clerk into the small, dimly-lit room.

Trim was in no state to help them.

"Get an ambulance, you idiot clerk!"

"Never mind that! Get a hearse _damn stupid bloody assassin . . ._"

* * *

Eternity is big. So big, in fact, words like 'gigantic' and 'colossal' fade into insignificance when feebly waved in the face of infinity. Despite its indescribable bigness, however, eternity is dull, so let's forget about it.

What is far more interesting, though far more temporary, is people. People are a miracle; whatever the circumstance, they always find something to stay alive for. Even if it is simply the fact that, well, it can't get much worse than this, can it? And even when it does, they come up with hundreds of little lies to tell themselves that make the whole thing bearable. The meek shall inherit the world, for example.

Sadly, this is very far from the truth. The people who inherit the world are the sort of people who tread on the meek's fingers, shout a lot, always go through doors first and sue each other all the time.

But that is just what you see. The people who _run _the world are the sort of people who know when to shut up, remain calm and, above all, can stop anyone in their tracks with a Look.

Havelock Vetinari was one of those people. (1) And he was determined that Ignita Trim was going to become one, too. This is why he didn't approve of her obvious shock at the size of the Library.

"Please control yourself. It's hardly infinite."

He was right. Death's library barely approached eternity, but it was certainly the largest room either human had ever imagined, let alone seen. It wasn't fair, anyway; no room had a right to be that big. Not that space was relevant.

Death did not waste time – not that time was relevant, either – talking. He strode between the shelves of books exactly like a large human skeleton with a scythe, which was, by strange coincidence, what he was. Both Vetinari and Ignita were used to other people hurrying to keep up with _them_, so it was an unwelcome experience to have to run after the tall figure. They were slightly out of breath by the time Death came to a halt.

**T**HE **V**ETINARI FAMILY.

Ignita thought about saying 'that's his family, isn't it' but as this was blindingly obvious, decided against it. "What about them?"

Death drew out a dusty, heavy-looking book and flicked through it, stopping at the last page. **L**OOK.

The girl looked. The page was full of neat, scratchy writing. Ignita got a bad feeling that she knew what this book was about. "It's a biography, isn't it?"

**Y**ES. A skeletal finger ran along the row of books. **E**VERYONE. **E**VER.

A shiver passed down Ignita's spine. She wanted to tell him to stop, but a sort of angry pride kept her quiet.

**M**OTHER. The dusty books were somehow menacing. **F**ATHER. **S**UCH A FASCINATING FAMILY, REALLY. **S**PENT SO MUCH TIME SUEING PEOPLE. **A**ND FOR WHAT? Death turned his pinprick blue eyes on Vetinari. **W**HAT IS LEFT OF THEM? **T**HIS MAN, AND SOME OLD BOOKS WHICH NO-ONE WILL EVER READ.

Nobody likes being told that all that will remain of them after their death is a bundle of paper. Ignita's formidable inner child stamped its feet ad wept, but her inner Patrician smacked it on the ear and told it to shut up.

Fortunately, Vetinari stepped in at that point, saying, "This is all very well, but perhaps we had better proceed with the task in hand?"

As Death nodded solemnly and took out Vetinari's book, a shiver passed down Ignita's spine. She inspected the biography. "It's big," she observed. "That's a good thing, right? It means he will . . . _did_ live for a long time?"

Death considered this. **N**OT NECCISSARILY. **I**T MEANS HIS MARK ON THE WORLD WILL TAKE A LONG TIME TO FADE. As he turned the pages, he explained: **T**HINK OF THIS WORLD AS A STREAM, AND ALL THE PEOPLE IN IT AS PEBBLES THROWN INTO THAT STREAM. **E**VEN AFTER THE PEBBLES HAVE SUNK, RIPPLES CONTINUE TO DISTURB THE SURFACE OF THE WATER. **L**IFE'S LIKE THAT.

"What a charming analogy. And I haven't sunk yet?" said Vetinari politely.

**N**O, BUT THAT IS MOSTLY BECAUSE YOU ARE THE SORT OF STONE THAT IS MADE OF PUMICE.

_No,_ thought Ignita suddenly, _it's not that. Well, partly. But it's also a sort of belief. Children believe in the Hogfather, and for them he _is _real. It's like that. Only . . . thinner . . . and considerably less jolly . . . The city believes in him. It's not his city; it's the other way round. Ankh-Morpork needs him and it can't accept that he's gone. That's what's keeping him here. They need him. But instead they've got . . . me._

However, she kept quiet. Without the faintest clue how she knew, she knew that she was right (2).

Vetinari and Death, meanwhile, were poring over the heavy-looking biography, and seemed to be deep in discussion.

**I**T'S JUST THAT THIS SORT OF THING USUALLY ENDS IN TROUBLE. **W**HAT IF – Death cast a glance at the girl and, in accordance with the time-honoured tradition of talking about troublesome young people, made a rather pointless attempt to lower his voice – WHAT IF SHE ATTEMPTS TO BECOME YOU? **I**T'S HAPPENED BEFORE. **A **HOLE IN REALITY, AND SOMEONE MUST FILL IT . . .

"I have full faith in Miss Trim," Vetinari assured him. "I have to. We all have to. I trust you will allow me to assist her in performing her duties?"

"Duties?" Ignita was sick of this. "I've just fallen off a damn horse a hundred damn feet up in the damn sky (3). Don't talk to me about duties. We've settled it that he's not dead, am I correct? Merely . . . breathing impaired. And now I'm tired and hungry and you are going to take me home." It wasn't a request. It wasn't even an order. It was a simple statement about how the future was going to be. "Besides, I've got a city to save. And I'm _not_ going home on that damn horse!"

Vetinari and Death, in a moment of anxiousness that was equally unusual for both of them, decided not to get in the way of that kind of certainty.

* * *

Trim wasn't dead. Assassins are good at telling when people are.

He was, however, not in a suitable state for, say, running a city or locating a lost teenager. Or, for that matter, walking. Drumknott was automatically made official carrier of the Patrician; leaving Trim where he was while they got help was unthinkable. G raced ahead, occasionally stopping to holler something vaguely aggressive at the secretary.

This wasn't in his nature. But as G ran, he could see in his head a million outcomes, a million horrible things that would happen to the city. The city which had, rather suspiciously, welcomed him with open arms when he first came here and still hadn't stabbed him in the back. Whatever had happened to Ignita would surely happen to all of them, and Drumknott wasn't making it any better by moving slowly.

They arrived at reception, dropped Trim at the feet of the reporter who was standing there with his mouth hanging open, then, without any planning or consideration for their future selves, ran for it. Later, there would be questions. But now . . . rest.

G collapsed on the bed in the first bedroom they came to. He was upset and, in a detached, non-specific sort of way, angry. He wanted to kick the world in the shins. It was going _well_, or at least, as well as things got in Ankh-Morpork. Sure, the Guilds were collapsing, and the economy could do with pumping up a bit, but at least someone sane had been in the Office. Now . . .

"What did he do to himself?" asked Drumknott, panting.

"Dunno."

"But what could it mean? I knew he'd gone nuts, but . . . you'd think he'd remember to eat and drink! Or at least breathe! Was he that bad? I thought he was worried about _other people_ killing him!"

"Just be quiet, will you? Look, I'm sorry about insulting you and everything, but Ignita-"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Drumknott looked shocked. "I'd forgotten! You're engaged, aren't you?"

"No!" G snapped. "I mean, yes, we are, but not because either of us _want _to be."

The clerk gave him a Look. "Sure."

"It's true! She hates me!"

"I don't doubt your word, Mr Deral." (4) He paused to allow a deep silence room to breathe, then continued: "How could you tell she wasn't there, then? It looked like you were listening for her."

"Yeah. Long story."

"Tell me!"

"Tell me _please sir_. Hah, I'm kidding." G smiled; playing with Trim's mind had, over the years, given him a mildly sadistic mindset, in a gentle, distant kind of way. "It'll bore you to death, honestly."

"Oh. Then I suppose I'll recite Rommely's Theory of Economic Balance in a Cabbage-Orientated Society instead, shall I?" suggested Drumknott, the picture of innocence. "It'll only take about two hours. _'Given the nature of the common or garden cabbage, with reference to its-'"_

"No!" The assassin sat up straight. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you how I can hear like that. Happy now?"

"Extremely so, sir."

"It's a boring tale, I swear. Well, here goes. My mother was a senior priestess in one of those little tiny temples in the mountains, you know. Anyway, one day this man – my father, he was a bit of a traveller – turned up as she was . . . in the river, doing the laundry, sort of thing, and . . ." G blushed. It made him look much younger. "Well, some time later, right, my mother had me, and that sort of thing was kind of frowned up in this particular temple . . ."

"Ah?"

"Well, they killed her."

"Oh."

"Yeah, that's what I said. So then they were about to sacrifice me or something, when my father burst in, kind of waving his sword – sorry, did I mention he was something of a Hero, too? – and slaughtered all but one of them. Yeah, I know, he was a bit of a bastard. So he said to the last priestess, right, that he'd spare her if she gave him a sort of compensation for me, for losing my mother. So she gave me this sort of blessing thing so I could hear really well, and then he killed her. Yes, we've already established that he was not very pleasant, OK? Then he took me and looked after me until I was about five, when he was attacked by some travelling teachers who got a bit edgy when they realised he wasn't giving me a proper education. They taught me a bit of grammar, that sort of thing, before I managed to run away. I was picked up by a strolling theatre group, then got a job on a farm – until the rest of the staff all died of Octorine Fever (5), of course. So I nicked one of the cows, they didn't have any horses, you see, and went towards the coast, but got kind of lost. Cows are hard to steer. I ended up in Genua, where this artist guy did some paintings of me and stuff, so I saved up some money that way and got on a coach which was hijacked and redirected to Uberwald, but I fell off just outside Ankh-Morpork. I did say I got _on _a coach, not _in _one. And there I was adopted by this rich family and sent to the Assassin's Guild.

"I _told_ you it was going to be boring. Er – why are you staring at me like that?"

* * *

(1) Hells, he was probably the one the others all came to when they got stuck.

(2) It was quite a familiar feeling. Some people just get it all the time. It's an inexplicable and fairly dangerous phenomenon.

(3) Rich people have more boring words, so they have to use them more often for the effect to really take place.

(4) Which translates roughly as: 'Yeah, right. Like I believe that.'

(5) It's like yellow fever, but even more dangerous because only wizards can tell it's there. Octorine Fever only occurs in areas of high magical concentration.


	7. The Storm

Chapter Seven:

**AN: I do **_**love**_** inventing the children of canon characters. Anyways, sorry again – I've been to Austria. Please let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: Are these actually necessary? Has anyone ever actually been punished for leaving it out? hears sirens Oh bugger. runs**

**Chapter Seven: The Storm**

_**Stampede's bad day – Mere distractions – Do you believe in Destiny? – Sausage inna bun – Any time at all – Introduction**_

Stampede De Worde was not having a good day. Surprisingly, this had little to do with his name.

He wanted to make his parents proud, of course. They had, after all, given him everything a boy could wish for: his own notebook before he had even learnt to write, guided tours round the more common locations of really good stories, and even a miniature printing press for his eighth birthday.

Stampede may have been wrong, but he got the distinct impression that someone was trying to give him a hint here.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be a journalist, of course. He really, really did. It was just that no-one else apart from his parents seemed to want him to. That woman round the corner who kept trying to cut his head off with her garden shears, for instance, or the two men who had just dumped the corpse of the Patrician at his feet. They were all out to ruin his career.

"Excuse me?" Nervously, Stampede nudged the body with his foot. "Er . . . are you dead?" _I'm talking to it_, he thought. _I am indeed my father's son._

On receiving no reply but a faint stirring and the merest suggestion of a groan, Stampede decided he may as well get on with it. He sat down.

"What are your feelings towards the speedily approaching mob?"

* * *

"You can _do_ that?"

**T**ECHNICALLY, YES. **D**OES ANYONE FANCY A CURRY?

"No, sorry. We have things to do, I'm afraid."

**T**HOUGHT SO. **O**H, WELL. Death turned away and prepared to return to his own world. **I**'LL COME BACK WHEN YOUR TIME IS UP. **W**HEN YOU FEEL LIKE GOING BACK, JUST CONCENTRATE OF BEING SOLID.

"That doesn't make sense," said Ignita.

"Please refrain from saying things like that," said Vetinari, absent-mindedly. "He clearly knows what he's talking about." The man's attention was on the ghostly figures that were moving about the room. They were mostly familiar, and obviously quite close at hand, yet they seemed to be moving through fog, and a very long way off. He didn't know if this was possible, but it was happening, so apparently it didn't matter.

Deciding to at least try and make a good _last_ impression, Ignita dropped the tiniest of curtseys in Death's direction. _I suppose, _she thought, _that everyone needs someone to respect._ "Thank you," she managed, before turning away, her stores of civility for that day already used up.

Death left. Ignita wondered why he bothered mucking about with the stupid horse when it could be done as easily as this.

"It's just like when I died," murmured Vetinari. "It's as if none of them matter any more. We can see them as mere distractions." The blurry shape of Commander Ironfoundersson streamed past.

She raised an eyebrow with all the skill of a professional. "You lived your whole life for these people, and now you're calling them distractions?"

"Not the people, Miss Trim; that is not how a city functions!" Vetinari looked irritated. "I thought you understood this! What is a city?"

"A machine," she replied. "A process. A collective being. Why am I not surprised I know this without having been told it?"

"I really couldn't say." Briskly, Vetinari went over to what looked like the ghost of his chair. "When we go back, they'll all be able to see you. I suspect that this will cause something of a pandemonium. So let me take this opportunity to say: Miss Trim, do you believe in Destiny?"

She thought. "This is a trick question, isn't it? I know you. I've had you inside my head. So the answer is if I do, it's superfluous. And if I don't, it's irrelevant."

Vetinari looked at her for just a little longer than was comfortable, but she held his gaze.

"Correct." He disappeared.

* * *

Once he was certain it was marginally unsafe to exit the room (1), G left the bedroom and stepped smartly aside as a floor panel exploded. "Sometimes, you know, I really wish they'd get it right. Just _once_. That's all it would take."

Drumknott brushed a small pile of gunpowder out of the doorway and threw it out of the window.

G stared at him. "You carry a dustpan and brush around? That sort of thing happens a lot?"

"You'd be amazed. What do we do now?" There was a look of polite blankness on the clerk's face.

"Um. I suppose people will know by now. Then I guess we should-"

He stopped when he saw the wolf.

* * *

Ingrid Pratt was having the time of her young life. It was not every day you had a chance to storm the Palace.

Really, she'd only been pulled into the crowd on her way out to get some honey, but soon enough it had upgraded to mob and some previously unknown part of her brain had kicked into action. Ingrid was a born torch-waver.

Somewhere just outside of her little angry world of yelling and torch-waving, she was aware of somebody trying to talk to her. It was Dibbler.

Now fairly elderly and a grandfather of eight, Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler refused to retire. He wasn't going to let the sausage-inna-bun business fall into the hands of 'those upstart newcomers,' no matter how many times people told him that they were in fact his own family. Competition is competition, family or no family, and competition must be fought.

"Care for a sausage inna bun, ma'am?" the salesman hollered over the noise of the mob. "So fresh the pig ain't noticed they're gone. Five pence a piece, and that's cutting my own throat!"

"Doing good business, Throat?" asked Ingrid cheerfully, taking care not to set fire to the merchandise (although if she had she might have been given a medal by the department for health and safety standards, if there had been one in Ankh-Morpork).

"Excellent, excellent!" Dibbler beamed. "Nothing like an angry mob for making you peckish!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean!"

Only one person in the mob actually knew why he was there, and that was Dibbler, who would choke himself to death on his own sausages the day he missed a business opportunity like this. The rest of them had picked up the rumour that the Patrician was dead – "No, _that_ was last week, I mean the _other_ Patrician, you know, the fat one" – and were nervous and angry and aimless but mostly just confused. They were having trouble keeping track of who was in charge of the city. But one thing was for certain: things were better with old Vetinari.

Oh, yeah, sure he was a tyrant, they said. But you could rely on him to be a tyrant every day of the week. You knew where you stood, with Vetinari.

The more cynical members of the Great Unwashed Public said: yes, in the scorpion pit.

But their belief that this couldn't actually be happening, no matter how rattled and battered it got, remained firm. Deep down beneath all the fear and uncertainty and the puzzlement, there was that quiet but firm little voice that said: _this isn't real. It's just not possible._

Even the ones who'd hated him – and that was most of them – had got used to Vetinari and the stability he represented. Even if it was an unpleasant, cold sort of stability. And besides, it was not every day you had a chance to storm the Palace.

* * *

Angua looked at the men with an expression that indicated that, you know, she didn't _have_ to be here, and certainly wasn't enjoying their company, hells no, what gave you that idea? It was the sort of look one is used to seeing on cats. Not dogs. And certainly not wolves.

"_Listen, are you going to come or not?" _she said in canine, with a slight jerk of her head. The little one smelt of worry and shock and watchfulness. The other just smelt of maths. They were both staring at her as if they'd never seen anything with four legs before. She set off, trotting along the corridor towards the Oblong Office. A human voice said: "That's a wolf!"

"_Men," _said Angua with disgust, although the canine word carried even more meanings than the human one. Most of which were unsuitable for translation.

Eventually, through much growling, nudging and the occasional head-but, the werewolf persuaded G and Drumknott to follow her. They arrived outside the Office in time to see a very alarmed Cheery Littlebottom stumble out into the corridor, dropping a few test-tubes as she went. "She wants a dictionary!" the dwarf wailed, before haring away in the general direction of the exit.

Drumknott looked at G, who shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't like dictionaries. It's not unheard of." They looked walked through the door into a scene of utter strangeness.

A considerable proportion of the City Watch was lined up in the middle of the room, shuffling their feet and staring at the floor. Detritus the troll was aiming his very large crossbow out of the window, although if he fired it the room would probably be reduced to kindling with bits of brain in it. But the eye was automatically drawn to Commander Carrot Ironfoundersson, who was doing his best to calm down the figure that was standing by the desk.

"Ignita!" yelled G. The rest of the world seemed to fall away. He ran forward, and was almost at the girl when he came to an awkward halt. They stood there, staring at each other, unsure what to do. "You're, er, back." _My gods, she gets more frightening every time we meet._

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" replied the girl, calmly. "Would you be so kind as to get this lot" – she gestured at the Watch – "organised while I address the people? Thank you _so_ much." With that, she was gone.

"Er." G blinked at the assembled Watchmen, Watchwomen and other assorted life forms and waved his hands in a way that put them in mind of a man attempting to arm-wrestle an octopus. "Well, you heard her. You're Watch . . . things, aren't you? Get Watching! What do you want?" the Assassin snapped, causing Drumknott to flinch and step backwards.

"Sorry," the clerk mumbled, "but I just thought of something. His Lordship was meant to have golems in his office, looking after him."

"Fat lot of good they did, then."

"No, you don't understand. When we went to . . . when we . . . found him . . . there was nothing. Nobody."

G looked thoughtful. "I see."

"Yes."

"You're certain about this, then?"

"Yes."

"What do you know about golems, Mr Drumknott?"

"I could fetch you the file, if you like, sir-"

"No!" G made a mental note to discuss the filing issue with him if they ever got out of this alive. _And who knows? I could do with someone to deal with all this bloody paperwork at the Guild. _"No. Let's assume for the moment that they found something better to do with their time. So many golems are going free these days. I expect they went to tell someone when he passed out, or whatever."

* * *

_**HE**__LLO? __**W**__HAT DO YOU WANT?_

"_We Were Instructed To Inform Our Employer In The Event Of Harm Coming To Her Father. Is She Here?"_

_**A**__H? __**N**__O. __**Y**__OU JUST MISSED HER. __**S**__ORRY._

"_We Understand. We Are Sorry To Have Disturbed You."_

_**N**__OT AT ALL. __**D**__ROP IN ANY TIME._

"_Thank You."_

_**R**__EALLY. __**I**__ MEAN IT. __**A**__NY TIME._

"_Goodbye."_

_**A**__NY TIME. __**A**__NY TIME AT ALL. __**I**__ MEAN IT._

Laetissimus stood up quickly, knocking over his chair.

"Thur?" said Igorina anxiously. "What ith it?"

"A mob just went past outside."

She paled. "Did they have pitchforkth, thur?"

The man looked at her quizzically. "Yes. Why?"

"No reathon, no reathon . . ." Slipping noiselessly out of the room, Igorina prepared to pack her bags.

* * *

Pitchforks were waved. Torches were brandished and, rather often, dropped. Ingrid Pratt and thousands of others had reached the penultimate stage of the riot, and had now realised that it would not be long before they were forced to admit that they didn't know what was meant to happen next.

Fortunately for them, this dilemma was soon solved by the girl who emerged from the Palace. Nobody was sure if this was supposed to happen, so they waved the pitchforks a bit more and yelled non-committal things, like 'boo, hiss' or 'cabbage'. (2)

"Ankh-Morpork," said Ignita, in a fairly quiet voice which nevertheless reached every ear in the sudden silence. "Allow me to introduce myself."

* * *

(1) This is as good as it gets when you are a senior Assassin. It's tough at the top, but even tougher when all the people below you move silently and know how to use a crossbow.

(2) There are so many interesting side-effects of living in a city so close to the thriving agricultural haven of the Sto Plains.


	8. Political Convention

**Dear reader, I realise I have been a very naughty girl and failed to update for a few months. Sorry. Allow me to bring you up to speed with a quick summary: following the death of Lord Vetinari, a new Patrician was voted for. The favourite – Laetissimus Greenferry - failed to get the spot and, through the intervention of Head Assassin G, the position fell to Gregory Trim, who quickly set about engaging his daughter Ignita to G. The new ruler then lost his marbles and, in a fit of paranoia, temporarily forgot to breathe. He was found by G and Drumknott and left in the charge of Stampede De Worde, an unfortunate journalist. Ignita is being haunted by Vetinari and is about to make a speech to the assembled mob.**

**Phew. Sorry about that. On with the story! Oh, and big thumbs-up to Virtuella, who got me writing again. =) Hip hip hooray! I'm a little rusty so please let me know what you think.**

**Chapter Eight: Political Convention**

_**Just what I need – Internal dialogue – No sarcasm spared – "To the University!" – The Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things**_

"Can you hear that?"

"No."

"Exactly." G paused for dramatic effect. "And do you know why?"

"Er . . . because there's nothing to hear?"

"_Exactly_."

With a non-committal shrug, Drumknott replied: "Or it could be the sound of you trying very hard not to hear what the rest of us are jolly lucky we can't hear, sir."

"That was amazingly astute of you." G turned to what remained of the City Watch. "I don't suppose any of you have got anything better to do, so I suggest you all go home to your families and tell them that the Apocalypse has come. That way, they won't be too shocked when they find out the truth."

Angua, who was now stood in a corner wrapped in a towel, saluted smartly. "Permission to stay, Commander Carrot."

"Permission granted, Captain Angua. Permission granted everyone." Carrot put on his heroic face and went into 'Mister Vimes Always Says' mode. "We're in this for the City, sir. Not the people. Not the Patrician. Just the City."

With a groan, G headed for the door. "Great. Just what I need. A _patriot_."

--

Stampede stood awestruck at the base of the magnificent Palace steps. He stared up at the girl there, seeming to glitter in the fading light. She'd somehow managed to procure a lectern from somewhere and was leaning on it like she was giving a pep talk. No. Better. A _speech_.

This was what it had all been leading to. This was it, he told himself, as the girl – what was her name again? Irene? Isabella? – drew herself up. His real chance to prove himself a journalist, a Seeker of Truth. His parents' son. Stampede found happy tears come into his eyes at the thought of the headlines, and his name underneath. Oh, joyous day!

Now . . . if only he could remember her name . . .

--

"My name is Ignita Trim."

_Where the hell did this lectern come from?_

"I have very little to say to you, and even less time in which to say it."

_It was necessary. You expected it. They expected it. Who are you to question political convention?_

"When you look at me, you see a girl, no doubt, and I commend you for your powers of observation."

_Er, me?_

"However, allow me to ask you this."

_Will I never catch you out?_

"If I were in army uniform, would I be a silly girl or a revolutionary icon?" (1)

_I sincerely hope not._

"If I were in the uniform of the Watch, would I be a silly girl or a heavily armed city official?"

Making an impromptu speech on which your life, future and potential career depends is one thing. Making it to Ankh-Morpork is quite another. Let's not go into making that speech during an internal squabble with a dead politician.

Ignita's words were not loud, but they yelled. They were not fierce, but they fought furiously into the mind of a city. At last. Free. The words had fulfilled their purpose. "Your enemy is not change. Your enemy is convention. Your enemy is stupidity. I will fight it with you. I will lead you now."

Really, they were only words – clever, exciting words, but empty words nonetheless. They were just the sizzle, not the sausage – but what sizzle! And you all know all about million-to-one-chances by now, of course.

Therefore you won't be at all surprised to hear that the desperate words pulled exactly the right lever in one head. That was all it took for one person – history, of course, has forgotten the name of Ingrid Pratt – to begin to clap. Hesitantly at first, like a sheep cautiously putting forward its radical ideas for a new system of leadership within the flock, but it was enough and soon everyone was crawling all over the bandwagon. The music of appreciation roared in her head. There were ugly discords of booing, of course, and secretly Ignita knew they were only applauding because everyone else was, but still. She was flying on wings of pride.

Oh, yes. And she had spotted Mister Newspaper down there, scribbling away in his notebook. That felt good.

Invisible, Vetinari stepped out of her and surveyed the cheering mass of people, but the power didn't vanish; it wasn't his anymore. He turned to face Ignita and a twisted smile stalked across his invisible face. "It feels good."

_Stop reading my mind._

"Stop being hypocritical. You have done it, for now, but something tells me this is not over by any means."

The girl waved an incredulous arm over the city – _her city._ It was enough of a question in itself.

Vetinari shrugged. "Just a hunch. Maybe you should ask _him_."

She didn't need to turn around to know who was standing behind her, but she did anyway, which was just as well as it meant that the arrow Casuistry Carthridge shot at that moment missed her completely.

"Commander Carrot," said Ignita imperiously as the watchman approached.

"Ma'am," Carrot replied, courteously taking her wrist. "You are under arrest, Ma'am, for Conspiracy Against the Patrician, Directly Disobeying the Patrician, and Knowingly and Wilfully Causing a Bloody Racket, under Clause iv, Paragraph Six-"

"Oh, for gods' sakes, man, she's with me," said another voice, and G appeared, looking thoroughly flustered but also rather smug. As Carrot eyed Ignita suspiciously, the Assassin went on, "I heard you making your speech and decided you might need a little help." He gave her a winning smile. Sadly, Ignita Trim was handing out no prizes.

"Hmph." Help was not something that appealed to her, especially not when it was coming from a load of none-too bright watchmen and a far-too-bright Assassin. "Well, I'm doing just fine on my own, thanks," she declared. "And for your information, this-"

"_Look out!_"

Ignita looked out just in time to see G flying towards her. They hit the ground and rolled as something small and sharp whistled past where she'd just been standing, and made a tiny _ping_ noise as it bounced off Detritus.

"What the he . . . ck was that?"

The troll picked up the little dart, but it snapped in his huge fingers. "Someone threw a needle at youse, miss," he announced, mystified. "You want me find them and break them neck?"

"N-no, Sergeant, thanks all the same," called G. He scratched his head.

"What?" asked Ignita, sparing no sarcasm. "Are you wondering who in the world could possibly want to kill me? Or you, I suppose."

"Nope. I'm thinking that you really owe me a favour now."

"Oh, that's a _joke_. I see. Of course, you are really searching for the solution as to how such a would-be assassin escaped your expert assessment of the area." With one final wave to the excited throng at the base of the steps and a nod in the direction of Mister De Worde Junior (2), Ignita marched inside, the City Watch forming a protective, if bemused, cocoon around her. "I suggest you get on it right away, G."

He gulped. "Yes, dear."

--

Casuistry swore and ducked out of sight. He must be losing his touch – either that, or the stress of the assignment was getting to him. Yes, it must be that. Deral wasn't as dumb as he seemed, though that wasn't saying much, and the whole thing was rather silly anyway.

He looked round. There was a sound like 'ook,' closely followed by a crunch. Over the noise of the crowd, who were by now _humhch _(3), it should have been totally inaudible, but then there _was_ someone with uniquely good hearing listening for it. His head snapped up.

From his rooftop, the librarian bared his teeth and gave G a little wave. The Assassin waved back; not in a oh-look-who-it-is-I-hope-he's-not-coming-over kind of way, but in a what-the-hells-are-you-doing-up-there-you-bloody-great-ape kind of way. "You know something I don't," G said, although he had no expectation of the Librarian being able to hear him. "To the University!"

He missed a step and landed on Stampede.

--

Slithering along a badly-lit passage in the underbelly of the building, Igorina held her breath and prayed that he was still here, somewhere. _No-one ever cleans this place_, she assumed. _And is that . . . music?_

There was no mistaking it. A jaunty sort of tune that had no right to be playing in a spooky, dank corridor. It made Igorina think of candyfloss and dead goldfish. She licked her lips hungrily and followed the sound towards a point in the wall that, if she remembered correctly, was not in fact a wall but a hidden door. She knocked politely.

"Mister Da Quirm?"

There was no reply, but the fairground music relentlessly continued its painful cycle. Pushing the door open, Igorina looked anxiously inside.

"_Salve_," said Leonard Da Quirm, without looking up.

"E . . ." replied Igorina. "Mister Da Quirm?"

"_Ita vero_?"

"Um, yes. You don't know me, Mister Da Quirm, sir, but my brother Igor used to work for you sometimes – do you remember?"

"Hmmmmm . . ?"

Leonard Da Quirm was not a very together person. Never having been a particularly together person at the best of times, he was now officially divorced. But that hadn't stopped him inventing the wonderful 'Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things.' Recently, however, there hadn't been any deliveries of wood or food or anything. Leonard didn't think it very sensible to read to much into these things, but it was starting to nag at him in a vague sort of way that maybe there wasn't going to be enough food and maybe it was time he started to do something about it. Naturally, these thoughts had been dismissed at once, but he couldn't deny that he was starting to feel rather peckish. "Morporkian . . ?"

"If you could, Mister Da Quirm."

"Eh. Yes, alright. You are . . . no, don't tell me, let me guess . . ."

"Igorina, sir."

"I told you to let me guess! _Hercle_!" He adjusted the lever for his Machine For Playing Music Stored On Big Black Dinner Plate Things and didn't look at her again. Igorina felt very undervalued indeed so she picked up a hammer and set off again towards the ground floor of the Palace.

* * *

(1) It's amazing who people are willing to hero-worship. Despite considerable protest from the ladies in question, there were by now plenty of young Morporkians with pin-ups of the so-called 'monstrous regiment' in their bedrooms. It would be funny if it wasn't so damn tragic.

(2) Who sadly didn't see this, as he was being hugged by his mother.

(3) There is no precise English translation. It means something like excitement, confusion, overcrowding, the aftermath of an adrenaline rush and hunger all rolled into one. The closest approximation is, oddly enough, 'city'.


End file.
